PASSING  OF  THE 
THIRD  FLOOR  BACK 


JKROME'K- JERO  ID 


LIBRARY] 

UN!V.:i}    TV  OF 
' 


V. 


SAN  DIEGO 


PASSING    OF    THE 
THIRD    FLOOR    BACK 


PASSING  OF  THE 
THIRD  FLOOR  BACK 

By 

JEROME    K.    JEROME 

Author  of  "Paul  Kelver,"  "Three  Men 
in  a  Boat,"  etc.,  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY 
1908 


COPYRIGHT,  1904,  BY 
JEROME  K.  JEROME 

COPYRIGHT,  1908,  BY 
DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY 

Published,  September,  1906 


CONTENTS 

PAQK 

PASSING  OF  THE  THIRD  FLOOR  BACK            .        .  1 

THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE 47 

THE    SOUL   OF   NICHOLAS    SNYDERS,   OB   THE 

MISER  OF  ZANDAM 85 

MRS.  KORNER  SINS  HER  MERCIES        .        .        .  120 

THE  COST  OF  KINDNESS 151 

THE  LOVE  OF  ULRICH  NEBENDAHL              .  171 


PASSING  OF  THE  THIRD 
FLOOR  BACK 

THE  neighbourhood  of  Bloomsbury 
Square  towards  four  o'clock  of  a  No- 
vember afternoon  is  not  so  crowded  as 
to  secure  to  the  stranger,  of  appearance 
anything  out  of  the  common,  immunity 
from  observation.  Tibb's  boy,  scream- 
ing at  the  top  of  his  voice  that  she  was 
his  honey,  stopped  suddenly,  stepped 
backwards  on  to  the  toes  of  a  voluble 
young  lady  wheeling  a  perambulator, 
and  remained  deaf,  apparently,  to  the 
somewhat  personal  remarks  of  the  vol- 
uble young  lady.  Not  until  he  had 
reached  the  next  corner — and  then  more 
as  a  soliloquy  than  as  information  to 
the  street — did  Tibb's  boy  recover  suf- 
ficient interest  in  his  own  affairs 
to  remark  that  he  was  her  bee.  The 


2  PASSING  OF  THE 

voluble  young  lady  herself,  following 
some  half-a-dozen  yards  behind,  for- 
got her  wrongs  in  contemplation  of 
the  stranger 's  back.  There  was  this  that 
was  peculiar  about  the  stranger's  back: 
that  instead  of  being  flat  it  presented  a 
decided  curve.  "  It  ain't  a  'ump,  and  it 
don't  look  like  kervitcher  of  the  spine," 
observed  the  voluble  young  lady  to  her- 
self. "  Blimy  if  I  don't  believe  'e's  tak- 
ing 'ome  'is  washing  up  his  back." 

The  constable  at  the  corner,  trying  to 
seem  busy  doing  nothing,  noticed  the 
stranger's  approach  with  gathering  in- 
terest. "  That's  an  odd  sort  of  a  walk 
of  yours,  young  man,"  thought  the  con- 
stable. "  You  take  care  you  don't  fall 
down  and  tumble  over  yourself. ' ' 

11  Thought  he  was  a  young  man," 
murmured  the  constable,  the  stranger 
having  passed  him.  "  He  had  a  young 
face  right  enough." 

The  daylight  was  fading.  The 
stranger,  finding  it  impossible  to  read 
the  name  of  the  street  upon  the  corner 
house,  turned  back. 


THIRD  FLOOR  BACK  3 

"  Why,  'tis  a  young  man,"  the  con- 
stable told  himself;  "  a  mere  boy." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the 
stranger;  "  but  would  you  mind  telling 
me  my  way  to  Bloomsbury  Square." 

"  This  is  Bloomsbury  Square,"  ex- 
plained the  constable ; ' '  leastways  round 
the  corner  is.  What  number  might  you 
be  wanting?  " 

The  stranger  took  from  the  ticket 
pocket  of  his  tightly  buttoned  overcoat 
a  piece  of  paper,  unfolded  it  and  read 
it  out :  ' i  Mrs.  Pennycherry.  Number 
Forty-eight." 

"  Bound  to  the  left,"  instructed  him 
the  constable;  "  fourth  house.  Been  rec- 
ommended there?  " 

"  By — by  a  friend,"  replied  the 
stranger.  "  Thank  you  very  much." 

' '  Ah, ' '  muttered  the  constable  to  him- 
self ;  "  guess  you  won't  be  calling  him 
that  by  the  end  of  the  week,  young 

"  Funny,"  added  the  constable,  gaz- 
ing after  the  retreating  figure  of  the 
stranger.  "  Seen  plenty  of  the  other 
sex  as  looked  young  behind  and  old  in 


4,  PASSING  OF  THE 

front.  This  cove  looks  young  in  front 
and  old  behind.  Guess  he'll  look  old  all 
round  if  he  stops  long  at  mother  Penny- 
cherry's  :  stingy  old  cat." 

Constables  whose  beat  included 
Bloomsbury  Square  had  their  reasons 
for  not  liking  Mrs.  Pennycherry.  Indeed 
it  might  have  been  difficult  to  discover 
any  human  being  with  reasons  for  liking 
that  sharp-featured  lady.  Maybe  the 
keeping  of  second-rate  boarding  houses 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Bloomsbury 
does  not  tend  to  develop  the  virtues  of 
generosity  and  amiability. 

Meanwhile  the  stranger,  proceeding 
upon  his  way,  had  rung  the  bell  of  Num- 
ber Forty-eight.  Mrs.  Pennycherry, 
peeping  from  the  area  and  catching  a 
glimpse,  above  the  railings,  of  a  hand- 
some if  somewhat  effeminate  masculine 
face,  hastened  to  readjust  her  widow's 
cap  before  the  looking-glass  while  direct- 
ing Mary  Jane  to  show  the  stranger, 
should  he  prove  a  problematical  boarder, 
into  the  dining-room,  and  to  light  the 
gas. 


THIRD  FLOOR  BACK  5 

"  And  don't  stop  gossiping,  and  don't 
you  take  it  upon  yourself  to  answer 
questions.  Say  I'll  be  up  in  a  minute," 
were  Mrs.  Penny  cherry 's  further  in- 
structions, "  and  mind  you  hide  your 
hands  as  much  as  you  can." 

"  What  are  you  grinning  at?  "  de- 
manded Mrs.  Penny  cherry,  a  couple  of 
minutes  later,  of  the  dingy  Mary 
Jane. 

"  Wasn't  grinning,"  explained  the 
meek  Mary  Jane,  "  was  only  smiling  to 
myself." 

"What  at?" 

1 '  Dunno, ' '  admitted  Mary  Jane.  But 
still  she  went  on  smiling. 

"  What's  he  like  then?  "  demanded 
Mrs.  Penny  cherry. 

"  'E  ain't  the  usual  sort,"  was  Mary 
Jane's  opinion. 

"  Thank  God  for  that,"  ejaculated 
Mrs.  Pennycherry  piously. 

"  Says  'e's  been  recommended,  by  a 
friend. ' ' 

"  By  whom?  " 


6  PASSING  OF  THE 

1 1  By  a  friend.   'E  didn  't  say  no  name. ' ' 

Mrs.  Penny  cherry  pondered.  "  He's 
not  the  funny  sort,  is  he?  " 

Not  that  sort  at  all.  Mary  Jane  was 
sure  of  it. 

Mrs.  Pennycherry  ascended  the  stairs 
still  pondering.  As  she  entered  the 
room  the  stranger  rose  and  bowed. 
Nothing  could  have  been  simpler  than 
the  stranger's  bow,  yet  there  came  with 
it  to  Mrs.  Pennycherry  a  rush  of  old 
sensations  long  forgotten.  For  one  brief 
moment  Mrs.  Pennycherry  saw  herself 
an  amiable  well-bred  lady,  widow  of  a 
solicitor :  a  visitor  had  called  to  see  her. 
It  was  but  a  momentary  fancy.  The  next 
instant  Eeality  reasserted  itself.  Mrs. 
Pennycherry,  a  lodging-house  keeper, 
existing  precariously  upon  a  daily  round 
of  petty  meannesses,  was  prepared  for 
contest  with  a  possible  new  boarder, 
who  fortunately  looked  an  inexperi- 
enced young  gentleman. 

"  Someone  has  recommended  me  to 
you,"  began  Mrs.  Pennycherry;  "  may 
I  ask  who?  " 


THIRD  FLOOR  BACK  7 

But  the  stranger  waved  the  question 
aside  as  immaterial. 

"  You  might  not  remember — him,"  he 
smiled.  "  He  thought  that  I  should  do 
well  to  pass  the  few  months  I  am  given 
— that  I  have  to  be  in  London,  here.  You 
can  take  me  in?  " 

Mrs.  Pennycherry  thought  that  she 
would  be  able  to  take  the  stranger 
in. 

"  A  room  to  sleep  in,"  explained  the 
stranger,  " — any  room  will  do — with 
food  and  drink  sufficient  for  a  man,  is  all 
that  I  require." 

"  For  breakfast,"  began  Mrs.  Penny- 
cherry,  "  I  always  give " 

"  What  is  right  and  proper,  I  am 
convinced,"  interrupted  the  stranger. 
"  Pray  do  not  trouble  to  go  into  detail, 
Mrs.  Pennycherry.  With  whatever  it  is 
I  shall  be  content." 

Mrs.  Pennycherry,  puzzled,  shot  a 
quick  glance  at  the  stranger,  but  his 
face,  though  the  gentle  eyes  were  smil- 
ing, was  frank  and  serious. 

"  At  all  events  you  will  see  the  room," 


8  PASSING  OF  THE 

suggested  Mrs.  Penny  cherry,  "  before 
we  discuss  terms." 

"  Certainly,"  agreed  the  stranger. 
"  I  am  a  little  tired  and  shall  be  glad  to 
rest  there." 

Mrs.  Penny  cherry  led  the  way  up- 
ward; on  the  landing  of  the  third  floor, 
paused  a  moment  undecided,  then 
opened  the  door  of  the  back  bedroom. 

'  *  It  is  very  comfortable, ' '  commented 
the  stranger. 

"  For  this  room,"  stated  Mrs.  Penny- 
cherry,  "  together  with  full  board,  con- 
sisting of " 

11  Of  everything  needful.  It  goes 
without  saying,"  again  interrupted  the 
stranger  with  his  quiet  grave  smile. 

"  I  have  generally  asked,"  continued 
Mrs.  Pennycherry,  "  four  pounds  a 
week.  To  you — "  Mrs.  Penny  cherry's 
voice,  unknown  to  her,  took  to  itself  the 
note  of  aggressive  generosity — "  seeing 
you  have  been  recommended  here,  say 
three  pounds  ten." 

11  Dear  lady,"  said  the  stranger, 
"  that  is  kind  of  you.  As  you  have 


THIRD  FLOOR  BACK  9 

divined,  I  am  not  a  rich  man.  If  it  be 
not  imposing  upon  you  I  accept  your 
reduction  with  gratitude. ' ' 

Again  Mrs.  Pennycherry,  familiar 
with  the  satirical  method,  shot  a  sus- 
picious glance  upon  the  stranger,  but 
not  a  line  was  there,  upon  that  smooth 
fair  face,  to  which  a  sneer  could  for  a 
moment  have  clung.  Clearly  he  was  as 
simple  as  he  looked. 

"  Gas,  of  course,  extra." 

"  Of  course,"  agreed  the  stranger. 

«  Coals " 

"  We  shall  not  quarrel,"  for  a  third 
time  the  stranger  interrupted.  "  You 
have  been  very  considerate  to  me  as  it 
is.  I  feel,  Mrs.  Pennycherry,  I  can  leave 
myself  entirely  in  your  hands." 

The  stranger  appeared  anxious  to  be 
alone.  Mrs.  Pennycherry,  having  put  a 
match  to  the  stranger's  fire,  turned  to 
depart.  And  at  this  point  it  was  that 
Mrs.  Pennycherry,  the  holder  hitherto 
of  an  unbroken  record  for  sanity,  be- 
haved in  a  manner  she  herself,  five  min- 
utes earlier  in  her  career,  would  have 


10  PASSING  OF  THE 

deemed  impossible — that  no  living  soul 
who  had  ever  known  her  would  have  be- 
lieved, even  had  Mrs.  Pennycherry  gone 
down  upon  her  knees  and  sworn  it  to 
them. 

"  Did  I  say  three  pound  ten?  "  de- 
manded Mrs.  Pennycherry  of  the 
stranger,  her  hand  upon  the  door.  She 
spoke  crossly.  She  was  feeling  cross, 
with  the  stranger,  with  herself — partic- 
ularly with  herself. 

"  You  were  kind  enough  to  reduce  it 
to  that  amount,"  replied  the  stranger; 
"  but  if  upon  reflection  you  find  your- 
self unable " 

"  I  was  making  a  mistake,"  said  Mrs. 
Pennycherry,  "  it  should  have  been  two 
pound  ten." 

1 '  I  cannot — I  will  not  accept  such  sac- 
rifice," exclaimed  the  stranger;  "  the 
three  pound  ten  I  can  well  afford." 

"  Two  pound  ten  are  my  terms," 
snapped  Mrs.  Pennycherry.  "  If  you 
are  bent  on  paying  more,  you  can  go 
elsewhere.  You'll  find  plenty  to  oblige 
you." 


THIRD  FLOOR  BACK  11 

Her  vehemence  must  have  impressed 
the  stranger.  "  We  will  not  contend 
further,"  he  smiled.  "  I  was  merely 
afraid  that  in  the  goodness  of  your 
heart " 

"  Oh,  it  isn't  as  good  as  all  that,'7 
growled  Mrs.  Penny  cherry. 

"  I  am  not  so  sure,"  returned  the 
stranger.  "  I  am  somewhat  suspicious 
of  you.  But  wilful  woman  must,  I  sup- 
pose, have  her  way." 

The  stranger  held  out  his  hand,  and 
to  Mrs.  Penny  cherry,  at  that  moment,  it 
seemed  the  most  natural  thing  in  the 
world  to  take  it  as  if  it  had  been  the 
hand  of  an  old  friend  and  to  end  the 
interview  with  a  pleasant  laugh — though 
laughing  was  an  exercise  not  often  in- 
dulged in  by  Mrs.  Pennycherry. 

Mary  Jane  was  standing  by  the  win- 
dow, her  hands  folded  in  front  of  her, 
when  Mrs.  Pennycherry  re-entered  the 
kitchen.  By  standing  close  to  the  win- 
dow one  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  trees 
in  Bloomsbury  Square  and  through  their 
bare  branches  of  the  sky  beyond. 


12  PASSING  OF  THE 

' '  There 's  nothing  much  to  do  for  the 
next  half  hour,  till  Cook  comes  back. 
I'll  see  to  the  door  if  you'd  like  a  run 
out?  "  suggested  Mrs.  Penny  cherry. 

' '  It  would  be  nice, ' '  agreed  the  girl  so 
soon  as  she  had  recovered  power  of 
speech;  "  it's  just  the  time  of  day  I 
like." 

"  Don't  be  longer  than  the  half  hour,'* 
added  Mrs.  Penny  cherry. 

Forty-eight  Bloomsbury  Square,  as- 
sembled after  dinner  in  the  drawing- 
room,  discussed  the  stranger  with  that 
freedom  and  frankness  characteristic  of 
Forty-eight  Bloomsbury  Square,  to- 
wards the  absent. 

"  Not  what  I  call  a  smart  young 
man,"  was  the  opinion  of  Augustus 
Longcord,  who  was  something  in  the 
City. 

"  Thpeaking  for  mythelf,"  com- 
mented his  partner  Isidore,  "  hav'n'th 
any  uthe  for  the  thmart  young  man. 
Too  many  of  him,  ath  it  ith. ' ' 

"  Must  be  pretty  smart  if  he's  one  too 
many  for  you,"  laughed  his  partner. 


THIRD  FLOOR  BACK  13 

There  was  this  to  be  said  for  the  repar- 
tee of  Forty-eight  Bloomsbury  Square: 
it  was  simple  of  construction  and  easy 
of  comprehension. 

' '  Well  it  made  me  feel  good  just  look- 
ing at  him,"  declared  Miss  Kite,  the 
highly  coloured.  * '  It  was  his  clothes,  I 
suppose — made  me  think  of  Noah  and 
the  ark — all  that  sort  of  thing." 

'  *  It  would  be  clothes  that  would  make 
you  think — if  anything,"  drawled  the 
languid  Miss  Devine.  She  was  a  tall, 
handsome  girl,  engaged  at  the  moment 
in  futile  efforts  to  recline  with  elegance 
and  comfort  combined  upon  a  horsehair 
sofa.  Miss  Kite,  by  reason  of  having 
secured  the  only  easy-chair,  was  unpopu- 
lar that  evening;  so  that  Miss  Devine 's 
remark  received  from  the  rest  of  the 
company  more  approbation  than  per- 
haps it  merited. 

"  Is  that  intended  to  be  clever,  dear, 
or  only  rude?  "  Miss  Kite  requested  to 
be  informed. 

"  Both,"  claimed  Miss  Devine. 

"  Myself,  I  must  confess,"  shouted 


14  PASSING  OF  THE 

the  tall  young  lady's  father,  commonly 
called  the  Colonel,  "  I  found  him  a 
fool." 

"  I  noticed  you  seemed  to  be  getting 
on  very  well  together, ' '  purred  his  wife, 
a  plump,  smiling  little  lady. 

"  Possibly  we  were,"  retorted  the 
Colonel.  "  Fate  has  accustomed  me  to 
the  society  of  fools." 

"  Isn't  it  a  pity  to  start  quarrelling 
immediately  after  dinner,  you  two," 
suggested  their  thoughtful  daughter 
from  the  sofa,  "  you'll  have  nothing  left 
to  amuse  you  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening. ' ' 

"  He  didn't  strike  me  as  a  conversa- 
tionalist," said  the  lady  who  was  cousin 
to  a  baronet;  "  but  he  did  pass  the  veg- 
etables before  he  helped  himself.  A 
little  thing  like  that  shows  breeding." 

"  Or  that  he  didn't  know  you  and 
thought  maybe  you'd  leave  him  half  a 
spoonful,"  laughed  Augustus  the  wit. 

11  What  I  can't  make  out  about 
him "  shouted  the  Colonel. 

The  stranger  entered  the  room. 


THIRD  FLOOR  BACK  15 

The  Colonel,  securing  the  evening 
paper,  retired  into  a  corner.  The  highly 
coloured  Kite,  reaching  down  from  the 
mantelpiece  a  paper  fan,  held  it  coyly 
before  her  face.  Miss  Devine  sat  upright 
on  the  horse-hair  sofa,  and  rearranged 
her  skirts. 

"  Know  anything?  "  demanded  Au- 
gustus of  the  stranger,  breaking  the 
somewhat  remarkable  silence. 

The  stranger  evidently  did  not  under- 
stand. It  was  necessary  for  Augustus, 
the  witty,  to  advance  further  into  that 
odd  silence. 

"  What's  going  to  pull  off  the  Lincoln 
handicap?  Tell  me,  and  I'll  go  out 
straight  and  put  my  shirt  upon  it. ' ' 

"  I  think  you  would  act  unwisely," 
smiled  the  stranger;  "  I  am  not  an  au- 
thority upon  the  subject." 

"  Not!  Why  they  told  me  you  were 
Captain  Spy  of  the  Sporting  Life — in 
disguise." 

It  would  have  been  difficult  for  a  joke 
to  fall  more  flat.  Nobody  laughed, 
though  why  Mr.  Augustus  Longcord 


16  PASSING  OF  THE 

could  not  understand,  and  maybe  none 
of  his  audience  could  have  told  him,  for 
at  Forty-eight  Bloomsbury  Square  Mr. 
Augustus  Longcord  passed  as  a  humor- 
ist. The  stranger  himself  appeared  una- 
ware that  he  was  being  made  fun  of. 

"  You  have  been  misinformed,"  as- 
sured him  the  stranger. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Mr.  Au- 
gustus Longcord. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  replied  the  stranger 
in  his  sweet  low  voice,  and  passed  on. 

"  Well  what  about  this  theatre,"  de- 
manded Mr.  Longcord  of  his  friend 
and  partner;  "  do  you  want  to  go  or 
don't  you?  "  Mr.  Longcord  was  feeling 
irritable. 

"  Goth  the  ticketh — may  ath  well," 
thought  Isidore. 

"  Damn  stupid  piece,  I'm  told." 

11  Motht  of  them  thupid,  more  or  leth. 
Pity  to  wathte  the  ticketh,"  argued  Isi- 
dore, and  the  pair  went  out. 

"  Are  you  staying  long  in  London?  ' 
asked  Miss  Kite,  raising  her  practised 
eyes  towards  the  stranger. 


THIRD  FLOOR  BACK  17 

"  Not  long,"  answered  the  stranger. 
"  At  least,  I  do  not  know.  It  depends. " 

An  unusual  quiet  had  invaded  the 
drawing-room  of  Forty-eight  Blooms- 
bury  Square,  generally  noisy  with  stri- 
dent voices  about  this  hour.  The 
Colonel  remained  engrossed  in  his 
paper.  Mrs.  Devine  sat  with  her  plump 
white  hands  folded  on  her  lap,  whether 
asleep  or  not  it  was  impossible  to  say. 
The  lady  who  was  cousin  to  a  baronet 
had  shifted  her  chair  beneath  the  gaso- 
lier,  her  eyes  bent  on  her  everlasting 
crochet  work.  The  languid  Miss  Devine 
had  crossed  to  the  piano,  where  she  sat 
fingering  softly  the  tuneless  keys,  her 
back  to  the  cold  barely-furnished  room. 

"  Sit  down,"  commanded  saucily  Miss 
Kite,  indicating  with  her  fan  the  vacant 
seat  beside  her.  "  Tell  me  about  your- 
self. You  interest  me."  Miss  Kite 
adopted  a  pretty  authoritative  air  to- 
wards all  youthful-looking  members  of 
the  opposite  sex.  It  harmonised  with 
the  peach  complexion  and  the  golden 
hair,  and  fitted  her  about  as  well. 


18  PASSING  OF  THE 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,"  answered  the 
stranger,  taking  the  chair  suggested. 
"  I  so  wish  to  interest  you." 

' l  You're  a  very  bold  boy. ' '  Miss  Kite 
lowered  her  fan,  for  the  purpose  of 
glancing  archly  over  the  edge  of  it,  and 
for  the  first  time  encountered  the  eyes 
of  the  stranger  looking  into  hers.  And 
then  it  was  that  Miss  Kite  experienced 
precisely  the  same  curious  sensation 
that  an  hour  or  so  ago  had  troubled  Mrs. 
Pennycherry  when  the  stranger  had  first 
bowed  to  her.  It  seemed  to  Miss  Kite 
that  she  was  no  longer  the  Miss  Kite 
that,  had  she  risen  and  looked  into  it, 
the  fly-blown  mirror  over  the  marble 
mantelpiece  would,  she  knew,  have  pre- 
sented to  her  view;  but  quite  another 
Miss  Kite — a  cheerful,  bright-eyed  lady 
verging  on  middle  age,  yet  still  good- 
looking  in  spite  of  her  faded  complexion 
and  somewhat  thin  brown  locks.  Miss 
Kite  felt  a  pang  of  jealousy  shoot 
through  her;  this  middle-aged  Miss  Kite 
seemed,  on  the  whole,  a  more  attractive 
lady.  There  was  a  wholesomeness,  a 


THIRD  FLOOR  BACK  19 

broadmindedness  about  her  that  in- 
stinctively drew  one  towards  her.  Not 
hampered,  as  Miss  Kite  herself  was,  by 
the  necessity  of  appearing  to  be  some- 
where between  eighteen  and  twenty-two, 
this  other  Miss  Kite  could  talk  sensibly, 
even  brilliantly:  one  felt  it.  A  thor- 
oughly "  nice  "  woman  this  other  Miss 
Kite;  the  real  Miss  Kite,  though  envi- 
ous, was  bound  to  admit  it.  Miss  Kite 
wished  to  goodness  she  had  never  seen 
the  woman.  The  glimpse  of  her  had 
rendered  Miss  Kite  dissatisfied  with 
herself. 

"  I  am  not  a  boy,"  explained  the 
stranger;  "  and  I  had  no  intention  of 
being  bold." 

"  I  know,"  replied  Miss  Kite.  "  It 
was  a  silly  remark.  Whatever  induced 
me  to  make  it,  I  can't  think.  Getting 
foolish  in  my  old  age,  I  suppose." 

The  stranger  laughed.  "  Surely  you 
are  not  old." 

"I'm  thirty-nine,"  snapped  out  Miss 
Kite.  "  You  don't  call  it  young?  "  ' 

"  I  think  it  a  beautiful  age,"  insisted 


20  PASSING  OF  THE 

the  stranger;  "  young  enough  not  to 
have  lost  the  joy  of  youth,  old  enough 
to  have  learnt  sympathy. ' ' 

"  Oh,  I  daresay,"  returned  Miss  Kite, 
"  any  age  you'd  think  beautiful.  I'm 
going  to  bed."  Miss  Kite  rose.  The 
paper  fan  had  somehow  got  itself 
broken.  She  threw  the  fragments  into 
the  fire. 

"It  is  early  yet,"  pleaded  the 
stranger,  "  I  was  looking  forward  to  a 
talk  with  you. ' ' 

"  Well,  you'll  be  able  to  look  forward 
to  it,"  retorted  Miss  Kite.  "  Good- 
night." 

The  truth  was,  Miss  Kite  was  impa- 
tient to  have  a  look  at  herself  in  the 
glass,  in  her  own  room  with  the  door 
shut.  The  vision  of  that  *other  Miss 
Kite — the  clean-looking  lady  of  the  pale 
face  and  the  brown  hair  had  been  so 
vivid,  Miss  Kite  wondered  whether  tem- 
porary forgetfulness  might  not  have 
fallen  upon  her  while  dressing  for  din- 
ner that  evening. 

The  stranger,  left  to  his  own  devices, 


THIRD  FLOOR  BACK  21 

strolled  towards  the  loo  table,  seeking 
something  to  read. 

"  You  seem  to  have  frightened  away 
Miss  Kite,"  remarked  the  lady  who  was 
cousin  to  a  baronet. 

' '  It  seems  so, ' '  admitted  the  stranger. 

"  My  cousin,  Sir  William  Bosster," 
observed  the  crocheting  lady,  "  who 
married  old  Lord  Egham's  niece — you 
never  met  the  Eghams?  " 

"  Hitherto,"  replied  the  stranger, 
"  I  have  not  had  that  pleasure." 

"  A  charming  family.  Cannot  under- 
stand— my  cousin  Sir  William,  I  mean, 
cannot  understand  my  remaining  here. 
*  My  dear  Emily  ' — he  says  the  same 
thing  every  time  he  sees  me:  '  My  dear 
Emily,  how  can  you  exist  among  the 
sort  of  people  one  meets  with  in  a  board- 
ing-house. '  But  they  amuse  me. '  ' 

A  sense  of  humour,  agreed  the 
stranger,  was  always  of  advantage. 

"  Our  family  on  my  mother's  side," 
continued  Sir  William's  cousin  in  her 
placid  monotone,  "  was  connected  with 
the  Tatton-Joneses,  who  when  King 


2%  PASSING  OF  THE 

George  the  Fourth "  Sir  William's 

cousin,  needing  another  reel  of  cotton, 
glanced  up,  and  met  the  stranger's 
gaze. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know  why  I'm  tell- 
ing you  all  this,"  said  Sir  William's 
cousin  in  an  irritable  tone.  "  It  can't 
possibly  interest  you." 

"  Everything  connected  with  you  in- 
terests me,"  gravely  the  stranger  as- 
sured her. 

"It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  say  so," 
sighed  Sir  William's  cousin,  but  with- 
out conviction ;  "  I  am  afraid  sometimes 
I  bore  people." 

The  polite  stranger  refrained  from 
contradiction. 

"  You  see,"  continued  the  poor  lady, 
"  I  really  am  of  good  family." 

"  Dear  lady,"  said  the  stranger, 
"  your  gentle  face,  your  gentle  voice, 
your  gentle  bearing,  all  proclaim  it." 

She  looked  without  flinching  into  the 
stranger's  eyes,  and  gradually  a  smile 
banished  the"  reigning  dulness  of  her 
features. 


THIRD  FLOOR  BACK  23 

"  How  foolish  of  me."  She  spoke 
rather  to  herself  than  to  the  stranger, 
"  Why,  of  course,  people — people  whose 
opinion  is  worth  troubling  about — judge 
of  you  by  what  you  are,  not  by  what  you 
go  about  saying  you  are." 

The  stranger  remained  silent. 

* '  I  am  the  widow  of  a  provincial  doc- 
tor, with  an  income  of  just  two  hundred 
and  thirty  pounds  per  annum,"  she  ar- 
gued. t '  The  sensible  thing  for  me  to  do 
is  to  make  the  best  of  it,  and  to  worry 
myself  about  these  high  and  mighty  rela- 
tions of  mine  as  little  as  they  have  ever 
worried  themselves  about  me." 

The  stranger  appeared  unable  to  think 
of  anything  worth  saying. 

"  I  have  other  connections,"  remem- 
bered Sir  William's  cousin;  "  those  of 
my  poor  husband,  to  whom  instead  of 
being  the  '  poor  relation  '  I  could  be  the 
fairy  god-mama.  They  are  my  people 
— or  would  be,"  added  Sir  William's 
cousin  tartly,  "  if  I  wasn't  a  vulgar 
snob." 

She  flushed  the  instant  she  had  said 


24  PASSING  OF  THE 

the  words  and,  rising,  commenced  prep- 
arations for  a  hurried  departure. 

"  Now  it  seems  I  am  driving  you 
away,"  sighed  the  stranger. 

"  Having  been  called  a  '  vulgar 
snob/  "  retorted  the  lady  with  some 
heat,  "  I  think  it  about  time  I  went." 

"  The  words  were  your  own,"  the 
stranger  reminded  her. 

"  Whatever  I  may  have  thought,"  re- 
marked the  indignant  dame,  "  no  lady 
— least  of  all  in  the  presence  of  a 
total  stranger — would  have  called  her- 
self  "  The  poor  dame  paused,  be- 
wildered. "  There  is  something  very 
curious  the  matter  with  me  this  evening, 
that  I  cannot  understand,"  she  ex- 
plained, "  I  seem  quite  unable  to  avoid 
insulting  myself." 

Still  surrounded  by  bewilderment,  she 
wished  the  stranger  good-night,  hoping 
that  when  next  they  met  she  would  be 
more  herself.  The  stranger,  hoping  so 
also,  opened  the  door  and  closed  it  again 
behind  her. 

"  Tell  me,"  laughed  Miss  Devine,  who 


THIRD  FLOOR  BACK  25 

by  sheer  force  of  talent  was  contriving 
to  wring  harmony  from  the  reluctant 
piano,  "  how  did  you  manage  to  do  it? 
I  should  like  to  know." 

"  How  did  I  do  what?  "  inquired  the 
stranger. 

"  Contrive  to  get  rid  so  quickly  of 
those  two  old  frumps?  " 

"  How  well  you  play!  "  observed  the 
stranger.  '  *  I  knew  you  had  genius  for 
music  the  moment  I  saw  you." 

"  How  could  you  tell?  ' 

"  It  is  written  so  clearly  in  your 
face." 

The  girl  laughed,  well  pleased.  "  You 
seera  to  have  lost  no  tune  in  studying 
my  face." 

"It  is  a  beautiful  and  interesting 
face,"  observed  the  stranger. 

She  swung  round  sharply  on  the  stool 
and  their  eyes  met. 

"  You  can  read  faces?  ' 

"  Yes." 

"  Tell  me,  what  else  do  you  read  in 
mine?  "  . 

"  Frankness,  courage " 


26  PASSING  OF  THE 

"  Ah,  yes,  all  the  virtues.  Perhaps. 
We  will  take  them  for  granted."  It  was 
odd  how  serious  the  girl  had  suddenly 
become.  "  Tell  me  the  reverse  side." 

"  I  see  no  reverse  side,"  replied  the 
stranger.  * '  I  see  but  a  fair  girl,  burst- 
ing into  noble  womanhood." 

"  And  nothing  else?  You  read  no 
trace  of  greed,  of  vanity,  of  sordidness, 

of "  An  angry  laugh  escaped  her 

lips.  ' '  And  you  are  a  reader  of  faces !  ' ' 

"  A  reader  of  faces."  The  stranger 
smiled.  "  Do  you  know  what  is  written 
upon  yours  at  this  very  moment?  A 
love  of  truth  that  is  almost  fierce,  scorn 
of  lies,  scorn  of  hypocrisy,  the  desire  for 
all  things  pure,  contempt  of  all  things 
that  are  contemptible — especially  of 
such  things  as  are  contemptible  in 
woman.  Tell  me,  do  I  not  read  aright?  " 

I  wonder,  thought  the  girl,  is  that  why 
those  two  others  both  hurried  from  the 
room?  Does  everyone  feel  ashamed  of 
the  littleness  that  is  in  them  when  looked 
at  by  those  clear,  believing  eyes  of 
yours  ? 


THIRD  FLOOR  BACK  27 

The  idea  occurred  to  her:  "  Papa 
seemed  to  have  a  good  deal  to  say  to  you 
during  dinner.  Tell  me,  what  were  you 
talking  about?  " 

"  The  military  looking  gentleman 
upon  my  left?  We  talked  about  your 
mother  principally." 

' '  I  am  sorry, ' '  returned  the  girl,  wish- 
ful now  she  had  not  asked  the  question. 
"  I  was  hoping  he  might  have  chosen 
another  topic  for  the  first  evening!  " 

"  He  did  try  one  or  two,"  admitted 
the  stranger;  "  but  I  have  been  about 
the  world  so  little,  I  was  glad  when  he 
talked  to  me  about  himself.  I  feel  we 
shall  be  friends.  He  spoke  so  nicely, 
too,  about  Mrs.  Devine." 

"  Indeed,"  commented  the  girl. 

11  He  told  me  he  had  been  married 
for  twenty  years  and  had  never  regret- 
ted it  but  once ! ' ' 

Her  black  eyes  flashed  upon  him,  but 
meeting  his,  the  suspicion  died  from 
them.  She  turned  aside  to  hide  her 
smile. 

"  So  he  regretted  it — once." 


28  PASSING  OF  THE 

"  Only  once,"  explained  the  stranger, 
"  a  passing  irritable  mood.  It  was  so 
frank  of  him  to  admit  it.  He  told  me — 
I  think  he  has  taken  a  liking  to  me.  In- 
deed he  hinted  as  much.  He  said  he  did 
not  often  get  an  opportunity  of  talking 
to  a  man  like  myself — he  told  me  that 
he  and  your  mother,  when  they  travel 
together,  are  always  mistaken  for  a 
honeymoon  couple.  Some  of  the  expe- 
riences -he  related  to  me  were  really 
quite  amusing."  The  stranger  laughed 
at  recollection  of  them — "  that  even 
here,  in  this  place,  they  are  generally 
referred  to  as  *  Darby  and  Joan.'  " 

11  Yes,"  said  the  girl,  "  that  is  true. 
Mr.  Longcord  gave  them  that  name,  the 
second  evening  after  our  arrival.  It 
was  considered  clever — but  rather  ob- 
vious I  thought  myself. ' ' 

"  Nothing — so  it  seems  to  me,"  said 
the  stranger,  "  is  more  beautiful  than 
the  love  that  has  weathered  the  storms 
of  life.  The  sweet,  tender  blossom  that 
flowers  in  the  heart  of  the  young — in 
hearts  such  as  yours — that,  too,  is  beau- 


THIRD  FLOOR  BACK  29 

tiful.  The  love  of  the  young  for  the 
young,  that  is  the  beginning  of  life.  But 
the  love  of  the  old  for  the  old,  that  is  the 
beginning  of — of  things  longer." 

"  You  seem  to  find  all  things  beauti- 
ful," the  girl  grumbled. 

"  But  are  not  all  things  beautiful?  " 
demanded  the  stranger. 

The  Colonel  had  finished  his  paper. 
' '  You  two  are  engaged  in  a  very  absorb- 
ing conversation,"  observed  the  Colo- 
nel, approaching  them. 

"  We  were  discussing  Darbies  and 
Joans, ' '  explained  his  daughter.  '  *  How 
beautiful  is  the  love  that  has  weathered 
the  storms  of  life!  " 

"  Ah!  "  smiled  the  Colonel,  "  that  is 
hardly  fair.  My  friend  has  been  repeat- 
ing to  cynical  youth  the  confessions  of 
an  amorous  husband's  affection  for  his 

middle-aged  and  somewhat "  The 

Colonel  in  playful  mood  laid  his  hand 
upon  the  stranger's  shoulder,  an  action 
that  necessitated  his  looking  straight  in- 
to the  stranger's  eyes.  The  Colonel  drew 
himself  up  stiffly  and  turned  scarlet. 


30  PASSING  OF  THE 

Somebody  was  calling  the  Colonel  a 
cad.  Not  only  that,  but  was  explaining 
quite  clearly,  so  that  the  Colonel  could 
see  it  for  himself,  why  he  was  a  cad. 

"  That  you  and  your  wife  lead  a  cat 
and  dog  existence  is  a  disgrace  to  both 
of  you.  At  least  you  might  have  the 
decency  to  try  and  hide  it  from  the 
world — not  make  a  jest  of  your  shame 
to  every  passing  stranger.  You  are  a 
cad,  sir,  a  cad!  ): 

Who  was  daring  to  say  these  things? 
Not  the  stranger,  his  lips  had  not  moved. 
Besides,  it  was  not  his  voice.  Indeed  it 
sounded  much  more  like  the  voice  of  the 
Colonel  himself.  The  Colonel  looked 
from  the  stranger  to  his  daughter,  from 
his  daughter  back  to  the  stranger. 
Clearly  they  had  not  heard  the  voice — 
a  mere  hallucination.  The  Colonel 
breathed  again. 

Yet  the  impression  remaining  was 
not  to  be  shaken  off.  Undoubtedly  it 
was  bad  taste  to  have  joked  to  the 
stranger  upon  such  a  subject.  No  gen- 
tleman would  have  done  so. 


THIRD  FLOOR  BACK  31 

But  then  no  gentleman  would  have 
permitted  such  a  jest  to  be  possible.  No 
gentleman  would  be  forever  wrangling 
with  his  wife — certainly  never  in  public. 
However  irritating  the  woman,  a  gentle- 
man would  have  exercised  self-control. 

Mrs.  Devine  had  risen,  was  coming 
slowly  across  the  room.  Fear  laid  hold 
of  the  Colonel.  She  was  going  to  ad- 
dress some  aggravating  remark  to  him 
— he  could  see  it  in  her  eye — which 
would  irritate  him  into  savage  retort. 
Even  this  prize  idiot  of  a  stranger  would 
understand  why  boarding-house  wits 
had  dubbed  them  "  Darby  and  Joan,'* 
would  grasp  the  fact  that  the  gallant 
Colonel  had  thought  it  amusing,  in  con- 
versation with  a  table  acquaintance,  to 
hold  his  own  wife  up  to  ridicule. 

"  My  dear,"  cried  the  Colonel,  hurry- 
ing to  speak  first,  "  does  not  this  room 
strike  you  as  cold?  Let  me  fetch  you  a 
shawl." 

It  was  useless :  the  Colonel  felt  it.  It 
had  been  too  long  the  custom  of  both 
of  them  to  preface  with  politeness  their 


m  PASSING  OF  THE 

deadliest  insults  to  each  other.  She 
came  on,  thinking  of  a  suitable  reply: 
suitable  from  her  point  of  view,  that  is. 
In  another  moment  the  truth  would  be 
out.  A  wild,  fantastic  possibility  flashed 
through  the  Colonel's  brain:  If  to  him, 
why  not  to  her  I 

"  Letitia,"  cried  the  Colonel,  and  the 
tone  of  his  voice  surprised  her  into  si- 
lence, "  I  want  you  to  look  closely  at 
our  friend.  Does  he  not  remind  you  of 
someone?  " 

Mrs.  Devine,  so  urged,  looked  at  the 
stranger  long  and  hard.  "  Yes,"  she 
murmured,  turning  to  her  husband,  "  he 
does,  who  is  it!  " 

"  I  cannot  fix  it,"  replied  the  Colonel; 
"  I  thought  that  maybe  you  would 
remember." 

"  It  will  come  to  me,"  mused  Mrs. 
Devine.  "  It  is  someone — years  ago, 
when  I  was  a  girl — in  Devonshire. 
Thank  you,  if  it  isn't  troubling  you, 
Harry.  I  left  it  in  the  dining-room." 

It  was,  as  Mr.  Augustus  Longcord  ex- 
plained to  his  partner  Isidore,  the  colos- 


THIRD  FLOOR  BACK  33 

sal  foolishness  of  the  stranger  that  was 
the  cause  of  all  the  trouble.  "  Give  me 
a  man,  who  can  take  care  of  himself — 
or  thinks  he  can,"  declared  Augustus 
Longcord,  "  and  I  am  prepared  to  give 
a  good  account  of  myself.  But  when  a 
helpless  baby  refuses  even  to  look  at 
what  you  call  your  figures,  tells  you  that 
your  mere  word  is  sufficient  for  him,  and 
hands  you  over  his  cheque-book  to  fill 
up  for  yourself — well,  it  isn't  playing 
the  game." 

"  Auguthuth,"  was  the  curt  comment 
of  his  partner,  "  you're  a  fool." 

"  All  right,  my  boy,  you  try,"  sug- 
gested Augustus. 

"  Jutht  what  I  mean  to  do,"  asserted 
his  partner. 

"  Well,"  demanded  Augustus  one 
evening  later,  meeting  Isidore  ascending 
the  stairs  after  a  long  talk  with  the 
stranger  in  the  dining-room  with  the 
door  shut. 

"  Oh,  don't  arth  me,"  retorted  Isi- 
dore, "  thilly  ath,  thath  what  he  ith." 

11  What  did  he  say?  " 


34  PASSING  OF  THE 

"  What  did  he  thay!  talked  about  the 
Jewth:  what  a  grand  rathe  they  were — 
how  people  mithjudged  them:  all  that 
thort  of  rot. 

* '  Thaid  thome  of  the  motht  honorable 
men  he  had  ever  met  had  been  Jewth. 
Thought  I  wath  one  of  'em!  " 

"  Well,  did  you  get  anything  out  of 
him?  " 

* '  Get  anything  out  of  him.  Of  courthe 
not.  Couldn't  very  well  thell  the  whole 
rathe,  ath  it  were,  for  a  couple  of  hun- 
dred poundth,  after  that.  Didn't  theem 
worth  it." 

There  were  many  things  Forty-eight 
Bloomsbury  Square  came  gradually  to 
the  conclusion  were  not  worth  the  do- 
ing:— Snatching  at  the  gravy;  pouncing 
out  of  one 's  turn  upon  the  vegetables  and 
helping  oneself  to  more  than  one's  fair 
share;  manoeuvring  for  the  easy-chair; 
sitting  on  the  evening  paper  while  pre- 
tending not  to  have  seen  it — all  such- 
like tiresome  bits  of  business.  For  the 
little  one  made  out  of  it,  really  it  was 
not  worth  the  bother.  Grumbling  ever- 


THIRD  FLOOR  BACK  35 

lastingly  at  one 's  food ;  grumbling  ever- 
lastingly at  most  things ;  abusing  Penny- 
cherry  behind  her  back;  abusing,  for  a 
change,  one's  fellow-boarders;  squab- 
bling with  one's  fellow-boarders  about 
nothing  in  particular;  sneering  at  one's 
fellow-boarders;  talking  scandal  of 
one's  fellow-boarders;  making  sense- 
less jokes  about  one's  fellow-boarders; 
talking  big  about  oneself,  nobody  believ- 
ing one — all  such-like  vulgarities.  Other 
boarding-houses  might  indulge  in  them: 
Forty-eight  Bloomsbury  Square  had  its 
dignity  to  consider. 

The  truth  is,  Forty-eight  Bloomsbury 
Square  was  coming  to  a  very  good  opin- 
ion of  itself :  for  the  which  not  Blooms- 
bury  Square  so  much  as  the  stranger 
must  be  blamed.  The  stranger  had  ar- 
rived at  Forty-eight  Bloomsbury  Square 
with  the  preconceived  idea — where  ob- 
tained from  Heaven  knows — that  its 
seemingly  commonplace,  mean-minded, 
coarse-fibred  occupants  were  in  reality 
ladies  and  gentlemen  of  the  first  water; 
and  time  and  observation  had  appar- 


36  PASSING  OF  THE 

ently  only  strengthened  this  absurd  idea. 
The  natural  result  was,  Forty-eight 
Bloomsbury  Square  was  coming  round 
to  the  stranger's  opinion  of  itself. 

Mrs.  Pennycherry,  the  stranger  would 
persist  in  regarding  as  a  lady  born  and 
bred,  compelled  by  circumstances  over 
which  she  had  no  control  to  fill  an  ardu- 
ous but  honorable  position  of  middle- 
class  society — a  sort  of  foster-mother, 
to  whom  were  due  the  thanks  and  grati- 
tude of  her  promiscuous  family ;  and  this 
view  of  herself  Mrs.  Pennycherry  now 
clung  to  with  obstinate  conviction. 
There  were  disadvantages  attaching, 
but  these  Mrs.  Pennycherry  appeared 
prepared  to  suffer  cheerfully.  A  lady 
born  and  bred  cannot  charge  other  ladies 
and  gentlemen  for  coals  and  candles  they 
have  never  burnt;  a  foster-mother  can- 
not palm  off  upon  her  children  New 
Zealand  mutton  f  o*r  Southdown.  A  mere 
lodging-house-keeper  can  play  these 
tricks,  and  pocket  the  profits.  But  a 
lady  feels  she  cannot:  Mrs.  Penny- 
cherry  felt  she  no  longer  could. 


THIRD  FLOOR  BACK  37 

To  the  stranger  Miss  Kite  was  a  witty 
and  delightful  conversationalist  of  most 
attractive  personality.  Miss  Kite  had 
one  failing:  it  was  lack  of  vanity.  She 
was  unaware  of  her  own  delicate  and 
refined  beauty.  If  Miss  Kite  could  only 
see  herself  with  his,  the  stranger's  eyes, 
the  modesty  that  rendered  her  distrust- 
ful of  her  natural  charms  would  fall 
from  her.  The  stranger  was  so  sure  of 
it  Miss  Kite  determined  to  put  it  to  the 
test.  One  evening,  an  hour  before  din- 
ner, there  entered  the  drawing-room, 
when  the  stranger  only  was  there  and 
before  the  gas  was  lighted,  a  pleasant, 
good-looking  lady,  somewhat  pale,  with 
neatly-arranged  brown  hair,  who  de- 
manded of  the  stranger  if  he  knew  her. 
All  her  body  was  trembling,  and  her 
voice  seemed  inclined  to  run  away  from 
her  and  become  a  sob.  But  when  the 
stranger,  looking  straight  into  her  eyes, 
told  her  that  from  the  likeness  he 
thought  she  must  be  Miss  Kite 's  younger 
sister,  but  much  prettier,  it  became  a 
laugh  instead:  and  that  evening  the 


38  PASSING  OF  THE 

golden-haired  Miss  Kite  disappeared 
never  to  show  her  high-coloured  face 
again;  and  what  perhaps,  more  than  all 
else,  might  have  impressed  some  former 
habitue  of  Forty-eight  Bloomsbury 
Square  with  awe,  it  was  that  no  one  in 
the  house  made  even  a  passing  inquiry 
concerning  her. 

Sir  William's  cousin  the  stranger 
thought  an  acquisition  to  any  boarding- 
house.  A  lady  of  high-class  family! 
There  was  nothing  outward  or  visible 
perhaps  to  tell  you  that  she  was  of  high- 
class  family.  She  herself,  naturally, 
would  not  mention  the  fact,  yet  somehow 
you  felt  it.  Unconsciously  she  set  a 
high-class  tone,  diffused  an  atmosphere 
of  gentle  manners.  Not  that  the  stranger 
had  said  this  in  so  many  words ;  Sir  Wil- 
liam's  cousin  gathered  that  he  thought 
it,  and  felt  herself  in  agreement  with 
him. 

For  Mr.  Longcord  and  his  partner,  as 
representatives  of  the  best  type  of  busi- 
ness men,  the  stranger  had  a  great  re- 
spect. With  what  unfortunate  results 


THIRD  FLOOR  BACK  39 

to  themselves  has  been  noted.  The  curi- 
ous thing  is  that  the  Firm  appeared  con- 
tent with  the  price  they  had  paid  for  the 
stranger's  good  opinion — had  even,  it 
was  rumoured,  acquired  a  taste  for  hon- 
est men's  respect — that  in  the  long  run 
was  likely  to  cost  them  dear.  But  we  all 
have  our  pet  extravagance. 

The  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Devine  both  suf- 
fered a  good  deal  at  first  from  the  neces- 
sity imposed  upon  them  of  learning, 
somewhat  late  in  life,  new  tricks.  In  the 
privacy  of  their  own  apartment  they 
condoled  with  one  another. 

"  Tomfool  nonsense,"  grumbled  the 
Colonel,  * '  you  and  I  starting  billing  and 
cooing  at  our  age!  " 

"  What  I  object  to,"  said  Mrs.  De- 
vine,  "  is  the  feeling  that  somehow  I 
am  being  made  to  do  it." 

"  The  idea  that  a  man  and  his  wife 
cannot  have  their  little  joke  together  for 
fear  of  what  some  impertinent  jacka- 
napes may  think  of  them!  it's  damn 
ridiculous,"  the  Colonel  exploded. 

"  Even  when  he  isn't  there,"   said 


40  PASSING  OF  THE 

Mrs.  Devine, ' '  I  seem  to  see  him  looking 
at  me  with  those  vexing  eyes  of  his. 
Really  the  man  quite  haunts  me." 

1 '  I  have  met  him  somewhere, ' '  mused 
the  Colonel,  "  I'll  swear  I've  met  him 
somewhere.  I  wish  to  goodness  he 
would  go." 

A  hundred  things  a  day  the  Colonel 
wanted  to  say  to  Mrs.  Devine,  a  hundred 
things  a  day  Mrs.  Devine  would  have 
liked  to  observe  to  the  Colonel.  But  by 
the  time  the  opportunity  occurred — 
when  nobody  else  was  by  to  hear — all 
interest  in  saying  them  was  gone. 

"  Women  will  be  women,"  was  the 
sentiment  with  which  the  Colonel  con- 
soled himself.  "  A  man  must  bear  with 
them — must  never  forget  that  he  is  a 
gentleman." 

"  Oh,  well,  I  suppose  they're  all 
alike,"  laughed  Mrs.  Devine  to  herself, 
having  arrived  at  that  stage  of  despair 
when  one  seeks  refuge  in  cheerfulness. 
"  What's  the  use  of  putting  oneself  out 
— it  does  no  good,  and  only  upsets  one." 

There  is  a  certain  satisfaction  in  feel- 


THIRD  FLOOR  BACK  41 

ing  you  are  bearing  with  heroic  resigna- 
tion the  irritating  follies  of  others. 
Colonel  and  Mrs.  Devine  came  to  enjoy 
the  luxury  of  much  self-approbation. 

But  the  person  seriously  annoyed  by 
the  stranger's  bigoted  belief  in  the  in- 
nate goodness  of  everyone  he  came 
across  was  the  languid,  handsome  Miss 
Devine.  The  stranger  would  have  it 
that  Miss  Devine  was  a  noble-souled, 
high-minded  young  woman,  something 
midway  between  a  Flora  Macdonald  and 
a  Joan  of  Arc.  Miss  Devine,  on  the  con- 
trary, knew  herself  to  be  a  sleek,  lux- 
ury-loving animal,  quite  willing  to  sell 
herself  to  the  bidder  who  could  offer  her 
the  finest  clothes,  the  richest  foods,  the 
most  sumptuous  surroundings.  Such  a 
bidder  was  to  hand  in  the  person  of  a 
retired  bookmaker,  a  somewhat  greasy 
old  gentleman,  but  exceedingly  rich  and 
undoubtedly  fond  of  her. 

Miss  Devine,  having  made  up  her 
mind  that  the  thing  had  got  to  be  done, 
was  anxious  that  it  should  be  done 
quickly.  And  here  it  was  that  the 


42  PASSING  OF  THE 

stranger's  ridiculous  opinion  of  her  not 
only  irritated  but  inconvenienced  her. 
Under  the  very  eyes  of  a  person — how- 
ever foolish — convinced  that  you  are 
possessed  of  all  the  highest  attributes  of 
your  sex,  it  is  difficult  to  behave  as 
though  actuated  by  only  the  basest  mo- 
tives. A  dozen  times  had  Miss  Devine 
determined  to  end  the  matter  by  formal 
acceptance  of  her  elderly  admirer's 
large  and  flabby  hand,  and  a  dozen 
times — the  vision  intervening  of  the 
stranger's  grave,  believing  eyes — had 
Miss  Devine  refused  decided  answer. 
The  stranger  would  one  day  depart.  In- 
deed, he  had  told  her  himself,  he  was  but 
a  passing  traveller.  When  he  was  gone 
it  would  be  easier.  So  she  thought  at 
the  time. 

One  afternoon  the  stranger  entered 
the  room  where  she  was  standing  by  the 
window,  looking  out  upon  the  bare 
branches  of  the  trees  in  Bloomsbury 
Square.  She  remembered  afterwards, 
it  was  just  such  another  foggy  afternoon 
as  the  afternoon  of  the  stranger's  ar- 


THIRD  FLOOR  BACK  4,3 

rival  three  months  before.  No  one  else 
was  in  the  room.  The  stranger  closed 
the  door,  and  came  towards  her  with 
that  curious,  quick-leaping  step  of  his. 
His  long  coat  was  tightly  buttoned,  and 
in  his  hands  he  carried  his  old  felt  hat 
and  the  massive  knotted  stick  that  was 
almost  a  staff. 

"  I  have  come  to  say  good-bye,"  ex- 
plained the  stranger.  "  I  am  going." 

"  I  shall  not  see  you  again?  "  asked 
the  girl. 

"  I  cannot  say,"  replied  the  stranger. 
11  But  you  will  think  of  me?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  with  a  smile, 
"  I  can  promise  that." 

' '  And  I  shall  always  remember  you, ' ' 
promised  the  stranger,  * '  and  I  wish  you 
every  joy — the  joy  of  love,  the  joy  of 
a  happy  marriage." 

The  girl  winced.  "  Love  and  mar- 
riage are  not  always  the  same  thing," 
she  said. 

"  Not  always,"  agreed  the  stranger, 
"  but  in  your  case  they  will  be  one." 

She  looked  at  him. 


44  PASSING  OF  THE 

"  Do  you  think  I  have  not  noticed?  " 
smiled  the  stranger,  "  a  gallant,  hand- 
some lad,  and  clever.  You  love  him  and 
he  loves  you.  I  could  not  have  gone 
away  without  knowing  it  was  well  with 
you. ' ' 

Her  gaze  wandered  towards  the  fad- 
ing light. 

"  Ah,  yes,  I  love  him,"  she  answered 
petulantly.  "  Your  eyes  can  see  clearly 
enough,  when  they  want  to.  But  one 
does  not  live  on  love,  in  our  world.  I 
will  tell  you  the  man  I  am  going  to 
marry  if  you  care  to  know. ' '  She  would 
not  meet  his  eyes.  She  kept  her  gaze 
still  fixed  upon  the  dingy  trees,  the  mist 
beyond,  and  spoke  rapidly  and  vehe- 
mently: "  The  man  who  can  give  me 
all  my  soul's  desire — money  and  the 
things  that  money  can  buy.  You  think 
me  a  woman,  I'm  only  a  pig.  He  is 
moist,  and  breathes  like  a  porpoise ;  with 
cunning  in  place  of  a  brain,  and  the  rest 
of  him  mere  stomach.  But  he  is  good 
enough  for  me." 

She    hoped    this    would    shock    the 


THIRD  FLOOR  BACK  45 

stranger  and  that  now,  perhaps,  he 
would  go.  It  irritated  her  to  hear  him 
only  laugh. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  you  will  not  marry 
him." 

"  Who  will  stop  me? "  she  cried 
angrily. 

"  Your  Better  Self." 

His  voice  had  a  strange  ring  of  au- 
thority, compelling  her  to  turn  and  look 
upon  his  face.  Yes,  it  was  true,  the  fancy 
that  from  the  very  first  had  haunted  her. 
She  had  met  him,  talked  to  him — in  si- 
lent country  roads,  in  crowded  city 
streets,  where  was  it?  And  always  in 
talking  with  him  her  spirit  had  been 
lifted  up:  she  had  been — what  he  had 
always  thought  her. 

"  There  are  those,"  continued  the 
stranger  (and  for  the  first  time  she  saw 
that  he  was  of  a  noble  presence,  that  his 
gentle,  child-like  eyes  could  also  com- 
mand), "  whose  Better  Self  lies  slain  by 
their  own  hand  and  troubles  them  no 
more.  But  yours,  my  child,  you  have 
let  grow  too  strong ;  it  will  ever  be  your 


46    PASSING  OF  THIRD  FLOOR  BACK 

master.  You  must  obey.  Flee  from  it 
and  it  will  follow  you ;  you  cannot  escape 
it.  Insult  it  and  it  will  chastise  you  with 
burning  shame,  with  stinging  self- 
reproach  from  day  to  day. ' '  The  stern- 
ness faded  from  the  beautiful  face,  the 
tenderness  crept  back.  He  laid  his  hand 
upon  the  young  girl's  shoulder.  "  You 
will  marry  your  lover,"  he  smiled. 
"  With  him  you  will  walk  the  way  of 
sunlight  and  of  shadow." 

And  the  girl,  looking  up  into  the 
strong,  calm  face,  knew  that  it  would  be 
so,  that  the  power  of  resisting  her  Better 
Self  had  passed  away  from  her  for  ever. 

"  Now,"  said  the  stranger,  "  come  to 
the  door  with  me.  Leave-takings  are 
but  wasted  sadness.  Let  me  pass  out 
quietly.  Close  the  door  softly  behind 
me." 

She  thought  that  perhaps  he  would 
turn  his  face  again,  but  she  saw  no  more 
of  him  than  the  odd  roundness  of  his 
back  under  the  tightly  buttoned  coat,  be- 
fore he  faded  into  the  gathering  fog. 

Then  softly  she  closed  the  door. 


THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE 

MYSELF,  I  do  not  believe  this  story.  Six 
persons  are  persuaded  of  its  truth;  and 
the  hope  of  these  six  is  to  convince  them- 
selves it  was  an  hallucination.  Their 
difficulty  is  there  are  six  of  them.  Each 
one  alone  perceives  clearly  that  it  never 
could  have  been.  Unfortunately,  they 
are  close  friends,  and  cannot  get  away 
from  one  another;  and  when  they  meet 
and  look  into  each  other's  eyes  the  thing 
takes  shape  again. 

The  one  who  told  it  to  me,  and  who 
immediately  wished  he  had  not,  was 
Armitage.  He  told  it  to  me  one  night 
when  he  and  I  were  the  only  occupants 
of  the  Club  smoking-room.  His  telling 
me — as  he  explained  afterwards — was 
an  impulse  of  the  moment.  Sense  of  the 
thing  had  been  pressing  upon  him  all 
that  day  with  unusual  persistence;  and 
the  idea  had  occurred  to  him,  on  my  en- 

47 


48      THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE 

tering  the  room,  that  the  flippant  scep- 
ticism with  which  an  essentially  com- 
monplace mind  like  my  own — he  used 
the  words  in  no  offensive  sense — would 
be  sure  to  regard  the  affair  might  help 
to  direct  his  own  attention  to  its  more 
absurd  aspect.  I  am  inclined  to  think  it 
did.  He  thanked  me  for  dismissing  his 
entire  narrative  as  the  delusion  of  a  dis- 
ordered brain,  and  begged  me  not  to 
mention  the  matter  to  another  living 
soul.  I  promised;  and  I  may  as  well 
here  observe  that  I  do  not  call  this  men- 
tioning the  matter.  Armitage  is  not  the 
man's  real  name;  it  does  not  even  begin 
with  an  A.  You  might  read  this  story 
and  dine  next  to  him  the  same  evening: 
you  would  know  nothing. 

Also,  of  course,  I  did  not  consider  my- 
self debarred  from  speaking  about  it, 
discreetly,  to  Mrs.  Armitage,  a  charming 
woman.  She  burst  into  tears  at  the  first 
mention  of  the  thing.  It  took  me  all  I 
knew  to  tranquillize  her.  She  said  that 
when  she  did  not  think  about  the  thing 
she  could  be  happy.  She  and  Armitage 


THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE       49 

never  spoke  of  it  to  one  another ;  and  left 
to  themselves  her  opinion  was  that  even- 
tually they  might  put  remembrance  be- 
hind them.  She  wished  they  were  not 
quite  so  friendly  with  the  Everetts.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Everett  had  both  dreamt  pre- 
cisely the  same  dream ;  that  is,  assuming 
it  was  a  dream.  Mr.  Everett  was  not  the 
sort  of  person  that  a  clergyman  ought, 
perhaps,  to  know ;  but  as  Armitage  would 
always  argue:  for  a  teacher  of  Chris- 
tianity to  withdraw  his  friendship  from 
a  man  because  that  man  was  somewhat 
of  a  sinner  would  be  inconsistent. 
Eather  should  he  remain  his  friend  and 
seek  to  influence  him.  They  dined  with 
the  Everetts  regularly  on  Tuesdays,  and 
sitting  opposite  the  Everetts,  it  seemed 
impossible  to  accept  as  a  fact  that  all 
four  of  them  at  the  same  time  and  in 
the  same  manner  had  fallen  victims  to 
the  same  illusion.  I  think  I  succeeded  in 
leaving  her  more  hopeful.  She  acknowl- 
edged that  the  story,  looked  at  from  the 
point  of  common  sense,  did  sound  ridicu- 
lous; and  threatened  me  that  if  I  ever 


50      THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE 

breathed  a  word  of  it  to  anyone,  she 
never  would  speak  to  me  again.  She  is 
a  charming  woman,  as  I  have  already 
mentioned. 

By  a  curious  coincidence  I  happened 
at  the  time  to  be  one  of  Everett's  di- 
rectors on  a  Company  he  had  just  pro- 
moted for  taking  over  and  developing 
the  Eed  Sea  Coasting  trade.  I  lunched 
with  him  the  following  Sunday.  He  is 
an  interesting  talker,  and  curiosity  to 
discover  how  so  shrewd  a  man  would 
account  for  his  connection  with  so  in- 
sane— so  impossible  a  fancy,  prompted 
me  to  hint  my  knowledge  of  the  story. 
The  manner  both  of  him  and  of  his  wife 
changed  suddenly.  They  wanted  to 
know  who  it  was  had  told  me.  I  refused 
the  information,  because  it  was  evident 
they  would  have  been  angry  with  him. 
Everett's  theory  was  that  one  of  them 
had  dreamt  it — probably  Camelford — 
and  by  hypnotic  suggestion  had  con- 
veyed to  the  rest  of  them  the  impression 
that  they  had  dreamt  it  also.  He  added 
that  but  for  one  slight  incident  he  should 


THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE       51 

have  ridiculed  from  the  very  beginning 
the  argument  that  it  could  have  been 
anything  else  than  a  dream.  But  what 
that  incident  was  he  would  not  tell  me, 
His  object,  as  he  explained,  was  not  to 
dwell  upon  the  business,  but  to  try  and 
forget  it.  Speaking  as  a  friend,  he  ad- 
vised me,  likewise,  not  to  cackle  about 
the  matter  any  more  than  I  could  help, 
lest  trouble  should  arise  with  regard  to 
my  director's  fees.  His  way  of  putting 
things  is  occasionally  blunt. 

It  was  at  the  Everetts',  later  on,  that 
I  met  Mrs.  Camelford,  one  of  the  hand- 
somest women  I  have  ever  set  eyes  upon. 
It  was  foolish  of  me,  but  my  memory  for 
names  is  weak.  I  forgot  that  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Camelford  were  the  other  two  con- 
cerned, and  mentioned  the  story  as  a 
curious  tale  I  had  read  years  ago  in  an 
old  Miscellany.  I  had  reckoned  on  it  to 
lead  me  into  a  discussion  with  her  on 
platonic  friendship.  She  jumped  up 
from  her  chair  and  gave  me  a  look.  I 
remembered  then,  and  could  have  bitten 
out  my  tongue.  It  took  me  a  long  while 


52      THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE 

to  make  my  peace,  but  she  came  round 
in  the  end,  consenting  to  attribute  my 
blunder  to  mere  stupidity.  She  was 
quite  convinced  herself,  she  told  me,  that 
the  thing  was  pure  imagination.  It  was 
only  when  in  company  with  the  others 
that  any  doubt  as  to  this  crossed  her 
mind.  Her  own  idea  was  that,  if  every- 
body would  agree  never  to  mention  the 
matter  again,  it  would  end  in  their  for- 
getting it.  She  supposed  it  was  her  hus- 
band who  had  been  my  informant:  he 
was  just  that  sort  of  ass.  She  did  not 
say  it  unkindly.  She  said  when  she  was 
first  married,  ten  years  ago,  few  people 
had  a  more  irritating  effect  upon  her 
than  had  Camelford;  but  that  since  she 
had  seen  more  of  other  men  she  had 
come  to  respect  him.  I  like  to  hear  a 
woman  speak  well  of  her  husband.  It  is 
a  departure  which,  in  my  opinion,  should 
be  more  encouraged  than  it  is.  I  assured 
her  Camelford  was  not  the  culprit;  and 
on  the  understanding  that  I  might  come 
to  see  her — not  too  often — on  her  Thurs- 
days, I  agreed  with  her  that  the  best 


THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE       53 

thing  I  could  do  would  be  to  dismiss  the 
subject  from  my  mind  and  occupy  my- 
self instead  with  questions  that  con- 
cerned myself. 

I  had  never  talked  much  with  Camel- 
ford  before  that  time,  though  I  had  often 
seen  him  at  the  Club.  He  is  a  strange 
man,  of  whom  many  stories  are  told. 
He  writes  journalism  for  a  living,  and 
poetry,  which  he  publishes  at  his  own 
expense,  apparently  for  recreation.  It 
occurred  to  me  that  his  theory  would  at 
all  events  be  interesting;  but  at  first 
he  would  not  talk  at  all,  pretending  to 
ignore  the  whole  affair,  as  idle  nonsense. 
I  had  almost  despaired  of  drawing  him 
out,  when  one  evening,  of  his  own  ac- 
cord, he  asked  me  if  I  thought  Mrs.  Ar- 
mitage,  with  whom  he  knew  I  was  on 
terms  of  friendship,  still  attached  im- 
portance to  the  thing.  On  my  express- 
ing the  opinion  that  Mrs.  Armitage  was 
the  most  troubled  of  the  group,  he  was 
irritated ;  and  urged  me  to  leave  the  rest 
of  them  alone  and  devote  whatever 
sense  I  might  possess  to  persuading  her 


54      THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE 

in  particular  that  the  entire  thing  was 
and  could  be  nothing  but  pure  myth.  He 
confessed  frankly  that  to  him  it  was 
still  a  mystery.  He  could  easily  regard 
it  as  chimera,  but  for  one  slight  incident. 
He  would  not  for  a  long  while  say  what 
that  was,  but  there  is  such  a  thing  as 
perseverance,  and  in  the  end  I  dragged 
it  out  of  him.  This  is  what  he  told  me. 
11  We  happened  by  chance  to  find  our- 
selves alone  in  the  conservatory,  that 
night  of  the  ball — we  six.  Most  of  the 
crowd  had  already  left.  The  last  *  ex- 
tra '  was  being  played:  the  music  came 
to  us  faintly.  Stooping  to  pick  up  Jes- 
sica's fan,  which  she  had  let  fall  to  the 
ground,  something  shining  on  the  tes- 
selated  pavement  underneath  a  group  of 
palms  suddenly  caught  my  eye.  We  had 
not  said  a  word  to  one  another;  indeed, 
it  was  the  first  evening  we  had  any  of 
us  met  one  another — that  is,  unless  the 
thing  was  not  a  dream.  I  picked  it  up. 
The  others  gathered  round  me,  and  when 
we  looked  into  one  another's  eyes  we 
understood :  it  was  a  broken  wine-cup,  a 


THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE       55 

curious  goblet  of  Bavarian  glass.  It 
was  the  goblet  out  of  which  we  had  all 
dreamt  that  we  had  drunk." 

I  have  put  the  story  together  as*  it 
seems  to  me  it  must  have  happened.  The 
incidents,  at  all  events,  are  facts.  Things 
have  since  occurred  to  those  concerned 
affording  me  hope  that  they  will  never 
read  it.  I  should  not  have  troubled  to 
tell  it  at  all,  but  that  it  has  a  moral. 

•  •  •  »  • 

Six  persons  sat  round  the  great  oak 
table  in  the  wainscoted  Speise  Saal  of 
that  cosy  hostelry,  the  Kneiper  Hof  at 
Konigsberg.  It  was  late  into  the  night. 
Under  ordinary  circumstances  they 
would  have  been  in  bed,  but  having  ar- 
rived by  the  last  train  from  Dantzic,  and 
having  supped  on  German  fare,  it  had 
seemed  to  them  discreeter  to  remain 
awhile  in  talk.  The  house  was  strangely 
silent.  The  rotund  landlord,  leaving 
their  candles  ranged  upon  the  sideboard, 
had  wished  them  "  Gute  Nacht  "  an 
hour  before.  The  spirit  of  the  ancient 
house  enfolded  them  within  its  wings. 


56      THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE 

Here  in  this  very  chamber,  if  rumour  is 
to  be  believed,  Emmanuel  Kant  himself 
had  sat  discoursing  many  a  time  and  oft. 
The  walls,  behind  which  for  more  than 
forty  years  the  little  peak-faced  man  had 
thought  and  worked,  rose  silvered  by 
the  moonlight  just  across  the  narrow 
way;  the  three  high  windows  of  the 
Speise  Saal  give  out  upon  the  old  Cathe- 
dral tower  beneath  which  now  he  rests, 
Philosophy,  curious  concerning  human 
phenomena,  eager  for  experience,  un- 
hampered by  the  limitation  Convention 
would  impose  upon  all  speculation,  was 
in  the  smoky  air. 

"  Not  into  future  events,"  remarked 
the  Eev.  Nathaniel  Armitage,  "  it  is  bet- 
ter they  should  be  hidden  from  us.  But 
into  the  future  of  ourselves — our  tem- 
perament, our  character — I  think  we 
ought  to  be  allowed  to  see.  At  twenty 
we  are  one  individual;  at  forty,  another 
person  entirely,  with  other  views,  with 
other  interests,  a  different  outlook  upon 
life,  attracted  by  quite  other  attributes, 
repelled  by  the  very  qualities  that  once 


THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE       57 

attracted  us.  It  is  extremely  awkward, 
for  all  of  us." 

1 1  I  ain  glad  to  hear  somebody  else  say 
that,"  observed  Mrs.  Everett,  in  her 
gentle,  sympathetic  voice.  "  I  have 
thought  it  all  myself  so  often.  Some- 
times I  have  blamed  myself,  yet  how  can 
one  help  it :  the  things  that  appeared  of 
importance  to  us,  they  become  indiffer- 
ent; new  voices  call  to  us;  the  idols  we 
once  worshipped,  we  see  their  feet  of 
clay. ' ' 

"  If  under  the  head  of  idols  you  in- 
clude me,"  laughed  the  jovial  Mr.  Ever- 
ett, "  don't  hesitate  to  say  so."  He  was 
a  large  red-faced  gentleman,  with  small 
twinkling  eyes,  and  a  mouth  both  strong 
and  sensuous.  "  I  didn't  make  my  feet 
myself.  I  never  asked  anybody  to  take 
me  for  a  stained-glass  saint.  It  is  not 
I  who  have  changed." 

"  I  know,  dear,  it  is  I,"  his  thin  wife 
answered  with  a  meek  smile.  "  I  was 
beautiful,  there  was  no  doubt  about  it, 
when  you  married  me." 

"  You  were,  my  dear,"  agreed  her 


58      THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE 

husband.  "  As  a  girl  few  could  hold  a 
candle  to  you." 

'  *  It  was  the  only  thing  about  me  that 
you  valued,  my  beauty,"  continued  his 
wife;  "  and  it  went  so  quickly.  I  feel 
sometimes  as  if  I  had  swindled  you. ' ' 

"  But  there  is  a  beauty  of  the  mind, 
of  the  soul,"  remarked  the  Bev.  Na- 
thaniel Armitage,  "  that  to  some  men  is 
more  attractive  than  mere  physical 
perfection." 

The  soft  eyes  of  the  faded  lady  shone 
for  a  moment  with  the  light  of  pleasure. 
"  I  am  afraid  Dick  is  not  of  that  num- 
ber," she  sighed. 

"  Well,  as  I  said  just  now  about  my 
feet,"  answered  her  husband  genially, 
"  I  didn't  make  myself.  I  always  have 
been  a  slave  to  beauty  and  always  shall 
be.  There  would  be  no  sense  in  pretend- 
ing among  chums  that  you  haven't  lost 
your  looks,  old  girl."  He  laid  his  fine 
hand  with  kindly  intent  upon  her  bony 
shoulder.  "  But  there  is  no  call  for 
you  to  fret  yourself  as  if  you  had  done 
it  on  purpose.  No  one  but  a  lover  imag- 


THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE       59 

ines  a  woman  growing  more  beautiful 
as  she  grows  older." 

"  Some  women  would  seem  to,"  an- 
swered his  wife. 

Involuntarily  she  glanced  to  where 
Mrs.  Camelford  sat  with  elbows  resting 
on  the  table;  and  involuntarily  also  the 
small  twinkling  eyes  of  her  husband  fol- 
lowed in  the  same  direction.  There  is 
a  type  that  reaches  its  prime  in  middle 
age.  Mrs.  Camelford,  nee  Jessica  Dear- 
wood,  at  twenty  had  been  an  uncanny- 
looking  creature,  the  only  thing  about 
her  appealing  to  general  masculine  taste 
having  been  her  magnificent  eyes,  and 
even  these  had  frightened  more  than 
they  had  allured.  At  forty,  Mrs.  Camel- 
ford  might  have  posed  for  the  entire 
Juno. 

"  Yes,  he's  a  cunning  old  joker  is 
Time,"  murmured  Mr.  Everett,  almost 
inaudibly. 

"  What  ought  to  have  happened,"  said 
Mrs.  Armitage,  while  with  deft  fingers 
rolling  herself  a  cigarette,  "  was  for 
you  and  Nellie  to  have  married." 


60      THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE 

Mrs.  Everett's  pale  face  flushed 
scarlet. 

"  My  dear,"  exclaimed  the  shocked 
Nathaniel  Armitage,  flushing  likewise. 

"  Oh,  why  may  one  not  sometimes 
speak  the  truth  1  "  answered  his  wife 
petulantly.  '  *  You  and  I  are  utterly  un- 
suited  to  one  another — everybody  sees 
it.  At  nineteen  it  seemed  to  me  beauti- 
ful, holy,  the  idea  of  being  a  clergyman's 
wife,  fighting  by  his  side  against  evil. 
Besides,  you  have  changed  since  then. 
You  were  human,  my  dear  Nat,  in  those 
days,  and  the  best  dancer  I  had  ever  met. 
It  was  your  dancing  was  your  chief  at- 
traction for  me  as  likely  as  not,  if  I 
had  only  known  myself.  At  nineteen 
how  can  one  know  oneself  ?  ' 

11  We  loved  each  other,"  the  Eev. 
Armitage  reminded  her. 

"  I  know  we  did,  passionately — then; 
but  we  don't  now."  She  laughed  a  little 
bitterly.  "Poor  Nat!  I  am  only  an- 
other trial  added  to  your  long  list.  Your 
beliefs,  your  ideals  are  meaningless  to 
me — mere  narrow-minded  dogmas,  sti- 


THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE       61 

fling  thought.  Nellie  was  the  wife  Na- 
ture had  intended  for  you,  so  soon  as 
she  had  lost  her  beauty  and  with  it  all 
her  worldly  ideas.  Fate  was  maturing 
her  for  you,  if  only  we  had  known.  As 
for  me,  I  ought  to  have  been  the  wife  of 
an  artist,  of  a  poet."  Unconsciously  a 
glance  from  her  ever  restless  eyes 
flashed  across  the  table  to  where  Horatio 
Camelford  sat,  puffing  clouds  of  smoke 
into  the  air  from  a  huge  black  meer- 
schaum pipe.  "  Bohemia  is  my  coun- 
try. Its  poverty,  its  struggle  would 
have  been  a  joy  to  me.  Breathing  its 
free  air,  life  would  have  been  worth 
living. ' ' 

Horatio  Camelford  leant  back  with 
eyes  fixed  on  the  oaken  ceiling.  "  It  is 
a  mistake,"  said  Horatio  Camelford, 
*  *  for  the  artist  ever  to  marry. ' ' 

The  handsome  Mrs.  Camelford 
laughed  good-naturedly.  "  The  ar- 
tist," remarked  Mrs.  Camelford,  "  from 
what  I  have  seen  of  him  would  never 
know  the  inside  of  his  shirt  from  the  out- 
side if  his  wife  was  not  there  to  take 


62      THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE 

it  out  of  the  drawer  and  put  it  over  his 
head." 

"  His  wearing  it  inside  out  would  not 
make  much  difference  to  the  world," 
argued  her  husband.  "  The  sacrifice  of 
his  art  to  the  necessity  of  keeping  his 
wife  and  family  does." 

"  Well,  you  at  all  events  do  not  ap- 
pear to  have  sacrificed  much,  my  boy," 
came  the  breezy  voice  of  Dick  Everett. 
"  Why,  all  the  world  is  ringing  with 
your  name." 

"  When  I  am  forty-one,  with  all  the 
best  years  of  my  life  behind  me,"  an- 
swered the  Poet.  "  Speaking  as  a  man, 
I  have  nothing  to  regret.  No  one  could 
have  had  a  better  wife ;  my  children  are 
charming.  I  have  lived  the  peaceful  ex- 
istence of  the  successful  citizen.  Had  I 
been  true  to  my  trust  I  should  have  gone 
out  into  the  wilderness,  the  only  possi- 
ble home  of  the  teacher,  the  prophet. 
The  artist  is  the  bridegroom  of  Art. 
Marriage  for  him  is  an  immorality.  Had 
I  my  time  again  I  should  remain  a 
bachelor." 


THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE       63 

"  Time  brings  its  revenges,  you  see," 
laughed  Mrs.  Camelford.  "  At  twenty 
that  fellow  threatened  to  commit  suicide 
if  I  would  not  marry  him,  and  cordially 
disliking  him  I  consented.  Now  twenty 
years  later,  when  I  am  just  getting  used 
to  him,  he  calmly  turns  round  and  says 
he  would  have  been  better  without  me. ' ' 

"  I  heard  something  about  it  at  the 
time, ' '  said  Mrs.  Armitage.  ' '  You  were 
very  much  in  love  with  somebody  else, 
were  you  not?  ' 

"  Is  not  the  conversation  assuming  a 
rather  dangerous  direction?  "  laughed 
Mrs.  Camelford. 

"  I  was  thinking  the  same  thing," 
agreed  Mrs.  Everett.  "  One  would  im- 
agine some  strange  influence  had  seized 
upon  us,  forcing  us  to  speak  our 
thoughts  aloud." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  was  the  original  cul- 
prit," admitted  the  Eeverend  Nathaniel. 
"  This  room  is  becoming  quite  op- 
pressive. Had  we  not  better  go  to 
bed?  " 

The  ancient  lamp  suspended  from  its 


64      THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE 

smoke-grimed  beam  uttered  a  faint, 
gurgling  sob,  and  spluttered  out.  The 
shadow  of  the  old  Cathedral  tower  crept 
in  and  stretched  across  the  room,  now 
illuminated  only  by  occasional  beams 
from  the  cloud-curtained  moon.  At  the 
other  end  of  the  table  sat  a  peak-faced 
little  gentleman,  clean-shaven,  in  full- 
bottomed  wig. 

"  Forgive  me,"  said  the  little  gentle- 
man. He  spoke  in  English,  with  a  strong 
accent.  "  But  it  seems  to  me  here  is 
a  case  where  two  parties  might  be  of 
service  to  one  another." 

The  six  fellow-travellers  round  the 
table  looked  at  one  another,  but  none 
spoke.  The  idea  that  came  to  each  of 
them,  as  they  explained  to  one  another 
later,  was  that  without  remembering 
it  they  had  taken  their  candles  and 
had  gone  to  bed.  This  was  surely  a 
dream. 

"  It  would  greatly  assist  me,"  con- 
tinued the  little  peak-faced  gentleman, 
"  in  experiments  I  am  conducting  into 
the  phenomena  of  human  tendencies,  if 


THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE       65 

you  would  allow  me  to  put  your  lives 
back  twenty  years. ' ' 

Still  no  one  of  the  six  replied.  It 
seemed  to  them  that  the  little  old  gen- 
tleman must  have  been  sitting  there 
among  them  all  the  time,  unnoticed  by 
them. 

"  Judging  from  your  talk  this  even- 
ing, ' '  continued  the  peak-faced  little  gen- 
tleman, "  you  should  welcome  my  offer. 
You  appear  to  me  to  be  one  and  all  of 
exceptional  intelligence.  You  perceive 
the  mistakes  that  you  have  made:  you 
understand  the  causes.  The  future 
veiled,  you  could  not  help  yourselves. 
What  I  propose  to  do  is  to  put  you  back 
twenty  years.  You  will  be  boys  and 
girls  again,  but  with  this  difference :  that 
the  knowledge  of  the  future,  so  far  as 
it  relates  to  yourselves,  will  remain  with 
you. 

"  Come,"  urged  the  old  gentleman, 
"  the  thing  is  quite  simple  of  accom- 
plishment. As — as  a  certain  philoso- 
pher has  clearly  proved :  the  universe  is 
only  the  result  of  our  own  perceptions. 


66      THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE 

By  what  may  appear  to  you  to  be  magic 
— by  what  in  reality  will  be  simply  a 
chemical  operation — I  remove  from  your 
memory  the  events  of  the  last  twenty 
years,  with  the  exception  of  what  imme- 
diately concerns  your  own  personalities. 
You  will  retain  all  knowledge  of  the 
changes,  physical  and  mental,  that  will 
be  in  store  for  you;  all  else  will  pass 
from  your  perception." 

The  little  old  gentleman  took  a  small 
phial  from  his  waistcoat  pocket,  and, 
filling  one  of  the  massive  wine-glasses 
from  a  decanter,  measured  into  it  some 
half-a-dozen  drops.  Then  he  placed  the 
glass  in  the  centre  of  the  table. 

1  '  Youth  is  a  good  tune  to  go  back  to, ' ' 
said  the  peak-faced  little  gentleman, 
with  a  smile.  "  Twenty  years  ago,  it 
was  the  night  of  the  Hunt  Ball.  You 
remember  itt  " 

It  was  Everett  who  drank  first.  He 
drank  it  with  his  little  twinkling  eyes 
fixed  hungrily  on  the  proud  handsome 
face  of  Mrs.  Camelford;  and  then 
handed  the  glass  to  his  wife.  It  was  she 


THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE       67 

perhaps  who  drank  from  it  most  eagerly. 
Her  life  with  Everett,  from  the  day 
when  she  had  risen  from  a  bed  of  sick- 
ness stripped  of  all  her  beauty,  had  been 
one  bitter  wrong.  She  drank  with  the 
wild  hope  that  the  thing  might  possibly 
be  not  a  dream ;  and  thrilled  to  the  touch 
of  the  man  she  loved,  as  reaching  across 
the  table  he  took  the  glass  from  her 
hand.  Mrs.  Armitage  was  the  fourth 
to  drink.  She  took  the  cup  from  her 
husband,  drank  with  a  quiet  smile,  and 
passed  it  on  to  Camelford.  And  Camel- 
ford  drank,  looking  at  nobody,  and  re- 
placed the  glass  upon  the  table. 

"  Come,"  said  the  little  old  gentle- 
man to  Mrs.  Camelford,  "  you  are  the 
only  one  left.  The  whole  thing  will  be 
incomplete  without  you." 

1 '  I  have  no  wish  to  drink, ' '  said  Mrs. 
Camelford,  and  her  eyes  sought  those 
of  her  husband,  but  he  would  not  look 
at  her. 

"  Come,"  again  urged  the  Figure. 
And  then  Camelford  looked  at  her  and 
laughed  drily. 


68      THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE 


"  You  had  better   drink,"   he    said. 
"  It's  only  a  dream." 

"  If  you  wish  it,"  she  answered.    And 
it  was  from  his  hands  she  took  the  glass. 
•  •  •  •  . 

It  is  from  the  narrative  as  Armitage 
told  it  to  me  that  night  in  the  Club 
smoking-room  that  I  am  taking  most  of 
my  material.  It  seemed  to  him  that  all 
things  began  slowly  to  rise  upward,  leav- 
ing him  stationary,  but  with  a  great  pain 
as  though  the  inside  of  him  were  being 
torn  away — the  same  sensation  greatly 
exaggerated,  so  he  likened  it,  as  descend- 
ing in  a  lift.  But  around  him  all  the 
time  was  silence  and  darkness  unre- 
lieved. After  a  period  that  might  have 
been  minutes,  that  night  have  been 
years,  a  faint  light  crept  towards  him. 
It  grew  stronger,  and  into  the  air  which 
now  fanned  his  cheek  there  stole  the 
sound  of  far-off  music.  The  light  and 
the  music  both  increased,  and  one  by 
one  his  senses  came  back  to  him.  He 
was  seated  on  a  low  cushioned  bench  be- 
neath a  group  of  palms.  A  young  girl 


THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE       69 

•was  sitting  beside  him,  but  her  face 
was  turned  away  from  him. 

'  *  I  did  not  catch  your  name, ' '  he  was 
saying.  "  Would  you  mind  telling  it 
tome?  " 

She  turned  her  face  towards  him.  It 
was  the  most  spiritually  beautiful  face 
he  had  ever  seen.  "  I  am  in  the  same 
predicament,"  she  laughed.  "  You  had 
better  write  yours  on  my  programme, 
and  I  will  write  mine  on  yours." 

So  they  wrote  upon  each  other's  pro- 
gramme and  exchanged  again.  The  name 
she  had  written  was  Alice  Blatchley. 

He  had  never  seen  her  before,  that  he 
could  remember.  Yet  at  the  back  of  his 
mind  there  dwelt  the  haunting  knowl- 
edge of  her.  Somewhere  long  ago  they 
had  met,  talked  together.  Slowly,  as  one 
recalls  a  dream,  it  came  back  to  him.  In 
some  other  life,  vague,  shadowy,  he  had 
married  this  woman.  For  the  first  few 
years  they  had  loved  each  other;  then 
the  gulf  had  opened  between  them,  wid- 
ened. Stern,  strong  voices  had  called 
to  him  to  lay  aside  his  selfish  dreams, 


70      THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE 

his  boyish  ambitions,  to  take  upon  his 
shoulders  the  yoke  of  a  great  duty. 
When  more  than  ever  he  had  demanded 
sympathy  and  help,  this  woman  had 
fallen  away  from  him.  His  ideals  but 
irritated  her.  Only  at  the  cost  of  daily 
bitterness  had  he  been  able  to  resist  her 
endeavours  to  draw  him  from  his  path. 
A  face — that  of  a  woman  with  soft  eyes, 
full  of  helpfulness,  shone  through  the 
mist  of  his  dream — the  face  of  a  woman 
who  would  one  day  come  to  him  out  of 
the  Future  with  outstretched  hands  that 
he  would  yearn  to  clasp. 

' '  Shall  we  not  dance  t  ' '  said  the  voice 
beside  him.  "  I  really  won't  sit  out  a 
waltz. ' ' 

They  hurried  into  the  ball-room.  With 
his  arm  about  her  form,  her  wondrous 
eyes  shyly,  at  rare  moments,  seeking  his, 
then  vanishing  again  behind  their  droop- 
ing lashes,  the  brain,  the  mind,  the  very 
soul  of  the  young  man  passed  out  of 
his  own  keeping.  She  complimented  him 
in  her  bewitching  manner,  a  delightful 
blending  of  condescension  and  timidity. 


THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE       71 

* '  You  dance  extremely  well, ' '  she  told 
him.  "  You  may  ask 'me  for  another, 
later  on." 

The  words  flashed  out  from  that  dim 
haunting  future.  "  Your  dancing  was 
your  chief  attraction  for  me,  as  likely 
as  not,  had  I  but  known1?  " 

All  that  evening  and  for  many  months 
to  come  the  Present  and  the  Future 
fought  within  him.  And  the  experience 
of  Nathaniel  Armitage,  divinity  stu- 
dent, was  the  experience  likewise  of 
Alice  Blatchley,  who  had  fallen  in  love 
with  him  at  first  sight,  having  found  him 
the  divinest  dancer  she  had  ever  whirled 
with  to  the  sensuous  music  of  the  waltz ; 
of  Horatio  Camelford,  journalist  and 
minor  poet,  whose  journalism  earned 
him  a  bare  income,  but  at  whose  minor 
poetry  critics  smiled;  of  Jessica  Dear- 
wood,  with  her  glorious  eyes,  and  muddy 
complexion,  and  her  wild  hopeless 
passion  for  the  big,  handsome,  ruddy- 
bearded  Dick  Everett,  who,  knowing  it, 
only  laughed  at  her  in  his  kindly,  lordly 
way,  telling  her  with  frank  brutalness 


72      THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE 

that  the  woman  who  was  not  beautiful 
had  missed  her  vocation  in  life;  of  that 
scheming,  conquering  young  gentleman 
himself,  who  at  twenty-five  had  already 
made  his  mark  in  the  City,  shrewd, 
clever,  cool-headed  as  a  fox,  except 
where  a  pretty  face  and  shapely  hand 
or  ankle  were  concerned ;  of  Nellie  Fan- 
shawe,  then  in  the  pride  of  her  ravish- 
ing beauty,  who  loved  none  but  herself, 
whose  clay-made  gods  were  jewels,  and 
fine  dresses  and  rich  feasts,  the  envy 
of  other  women  and  the  courtship  of  all 
mankind. 

That  evening  of  the  ball  each  clung 
to  the  hope  that  this  memory  of  the  fu- 
ture was  but  a  dream.  They  had  been 
introduced  to  one  another;  had  heard 
each  other's  names  for  the  first  time 
with  a  start  of  recognition ;  had  avoided 
one  another's  eyes;  had  hastened  to 
plunge  into  meaningless  talk;  till  that 
moment  when  young  Camelford,  stoop- 
ing to  pick  up  Jessica's  fan,  had  found 
that  broken  fragment  of  the  Rhenish 
wine-glass.  Then  it  was  that  conviction 


THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE       73 

refused  to  be  shaken  off,  that  knowledge 
of  the  future  had  to  be  sadly  accepted. 

What  they  had  not  foreseen  was  that 
knowledge  of  the  future  in  no  way  af- 
fected their  emotions  of  the  present. 
Nathaniel  Armitage  grew  day  by  day 
more  hopelessly  in  love  with  bewitching 
Alice  Blatchley.  The  thought  of  her 
marrying  anyone  else — the  long-haired, 
priggish  Camelford  in  particular — sent 
the  blood  boiling  through  his  veins; 
added  to  which  sweet  Alice,  with  her 
arms  about  his  neck,  would  confess  to 
him  that  life  without  him  would  be  a 
misery  hardly  to  be  endured,  that  the 
thought  of  him  as  the  husband  of  an- 
other woman — of  Nellie  Fanshawe  in 
particular — was  madness  to  her.  It  was 
right  perhaps,  knowing  what  they  did^ 
that  they  should  say  good-bye  to  one 
another.  She  would  bring  sorrow  into 
his  life.  Better  far  that  he  should  put 
her  away  from  him,  that  she  should  die 
of  a  broken  heart,  as  she  felt  sure  she 
would.  How  could  he,  a  fond  lover, 
inflict  this  suffering  upon  her?  He 


74      THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE 

ought  of  course  to  marry  Nellie  Fan- 
shawe,  but  he  could  not  bear  the  girl. 
Would  it  not  be  the  height  of  absurdity 
to  marry  a  girl  he  strongly  disliked  be- 
cause twenty  years  hence  she  might  be 
more  suitable  to  him  than  the  woman  he 
now  loved  and  who  loved  him! 

Nor  could  Nellie  Panshawe  bring  her- 
self to  discuss  without  laughter  the  sug- 
gestion of  marrying  on  a  hundred-and- 
fifty  a  year  a  curate  that  she  positively 
hated.  There  would  come  a  time  when 
wealth  would  be  indifferent  to  her,  when 
her  exalted  spirit  would  ask  but  for  the 
satisfaction  of  self-sacrifice.  But  that 
time  had  not  arrived.  The  emotions  it 
would  bring  with  it  she  could  not  in  her 
present  state  even  imagine.  Her  whole 
present  being  craved  for  the  things  of 
this  world,  the  things  that  were  within 
her  grasp.  To  ask  her  to  forego  them 
now  because  later  on  she  would  not  care 
for  them!  it  was  like  telling  a  school- 
boy to  avoid  the  tuck-shop  because,  when 
a  man,  the  thought  of  stick- jaw  would 
be  nauseous  to  him.  If  her  capacity  for 


THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE       75 

enjoyment  was  to  be  short-lived,  all  the 
more  reason  for  grasping  joy  quickly. 

Alice  Blatchley,  when  her  lover  was 
not  by,  gave  herself  many  a  headache 
trying  to  think  the  thing  out  logically. 
Was  it  not  foolish  of  her  to  rush  into 
this  marriage  with  dear  Nat?  At  forty 
she  would  wish  she  had  married  some- 
body else.  But  most  women  at  forty — 
she  judged  from  conversation  round 
about  her — wished  they  had  married 
somebody  else.  If  every  girl  at  twenty 
listened  to  herself  at  forty  there  would 
be  no  more  marriage.  At  forty  she 
would  be  a  different  person  altogether. 
That  other  elderly  person  did  not  inter- 
est her.  To  ask  a  young  girl  to  spoil 
her  life  purely  in  the  interests  of  this 
middle-aged  party — it  did  not  seem 
right.  Besides,  whom  else  was  she  to 
marry?  Camelford  would  not  have  her ; 
he  did  not  want  her  then;  he  was  not 
going  to  want  her  at  forty.  For  prac- 
tical purposes  Camelford  was  out  of  the 
question.  She  might  marry  somebody 
else  altogether — and  fare  worse.  She 


76      THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE 

might  remain  a  spinster:  she  hated  the 
mere  name  of  spinster.  The  inky- 
fingered  woman  journalist  that,  if  all 
went  well,  she  might  become :  it  was  not 
her  idea.  Was  she  acting  selfishly? 
Ought  she,  in  his  own  interests,  to  re- 
fuse to  marry  dear  Nat?  Nellie — the 
little  cat — who  would  suit  him  at  forty, 
would  not  have  him.  If  he  was  going  to 
marry  anyone  but  Nellie  he  might  as  well 
marry  her,  Alice.  A  bachelor  clergy- 
man! it  sounded  almost  improper.  Nor 
was  dear  Nat  the  type.  If  she  threw  him 
over  it  would  be  into  the  arms  of  some 
designing  minx.  What  was  she  to  do? 
Camelford  at  forty,  under  the  influ- 
ence of  favourable  criticism,  would  have 
persuaded  himself  he  was  a  heaven-sent 
prophet,  his  whole  life  to  be  beautifully 
spent  in  the  saving  of  mankind.  At 
twenty  he  felt  he  wanted  to  live.  Weird- 
looking  Jessica,  with  her  magnificent 
eyes  veiling  mysteries,  was  of  more  im- 
portance to  him  than  the  rest  of  the 
species  combined.  Knowledge  of  the  fu- 
ture in  his  case  only  spurred  desire.  The 


THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE       77 

muddy  complexion  would  grow  pink  and 
white,  the  thin  limbs  round  and  shapely ; 
the  now  scornful  eyes  would  one  day 
light  with  love  at  his  coming.  It  was 
what  he  had  once  hoped :  it  was  what  he 
now  knew.  At  forty  the  artist  is 
stronger  than  the  man;  at  twenty  the 
man  is  stronger  than  the  artist. 

An  uncanny  creature,  so  most  folks 
would  have  described  Jessica  Bearwood. 
Few  would  have  imagined  her  develop- 
ing into  the  good-natured,  easy-going 
Mrs.  Camelf ord  of  middle  age.  The  ani- 
mal, so  strong  within  her  at  twenty,  at 
thirty  had  burnt  itself  out.  At  eighteen, 
madly,  blindly  in  love  with  red-bearded, 
deep-voiced  Dick  Everett  she  would,  had 
he  whistled  to  her,  have  flung  herself 
gratefully  at  his  feet,  and  this  in  spite 
of  the  knowledge  forewarning  her  of  the 
miserable  life  he  would  certainly  lead 
her,  at  all  events  until  her  slowly  devel- 
oping beauty  should  give  her  the  whip 
hand  of  him — by  which  time  she  would 
have  come  to  despise  him.  Fortunately, 
as  she  told  herself,  there  was  no  fear  of 


78      THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE 

his  doing  so,  the  future  notwithstanding. 
Nellie  Fanshawe's  beauty  held  him  as 
with  chains  of  steel,  and  Nellie  had  no 
intention  of  allowing  her  rich  prize  to 
escape  her.  Her  own  lover,  it  was  true, 
irritated  her  more  than  any  man  she  had 
ever  met,  but  at  least  he  would  afford 
her  refuge  from  the  bread  of  charity. 
Jessica  Dearwood,  an  orphan,  had  been 
brought  up  by  a  distant  relative.  She 
had  not  been  the  child  to  win  affec- 
tion. Of  silent,  brooding  nature,  every 
thoughtless  incivility  had  been  to  her  an 
insult,  a  wrong.  Acceptance  of  young 
Camelford  seemed  her  only  escape  from 
a  life  that  had  become  to  her  a  martyr- 
dom. At  forty-one  he  would  wish  he  had 
remained  a  bachelor;  but  at  thirty-eight 
that  would  not  trouble  her.  She  would 
know  herself  he  was  much  better  off  as 
he  was.  Meanwhile,  she  would  have 
come  to  like  him,  to  respect  him.  He 
would  be  famous,  she  would  be  proud  of 
him.  Crying  into  her  pillow — she  could 
not  help  it — for  love  of  handsome  Dick, 
it  was  still  a  comfort  to  reflect  that  Nel- 


THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE       79 

lie  Fanshawe,  as  it  were,  was  watching 
over  her,  protecting  her  from  herself. 

Dick,  as  he  muttered  to  himself  a 
dozen  times  a  day,  ought  to  marry 
Jessica.  At  thirty-eight  she  would  be 
his  ideal.  He  looked  at  her  as  she  was 
at  eighteen,  and  shuddered.  Nellie  at 
thirty  would  be  plain  and  uninteresting. 
But  when  did  consideration  of  the  fu- 
ture ever  cry  halt  to  passion :  when  did 
a  lover  ever  pause  thinking  of  the  mor- 
row? If  her  beauty  was  to  quickly  pass, 
was  not  that  one  reason  the  more  urg- 
ing him  to  possess  it  while  it  lasted? 

Nellie  Fanshawe  at  forty  would  be  a 
saint.  The  prospect  did  not  please  her : 
she  hated  saints.  She  would  love  the 
tiresome,  solemn  Nathaniel :  of  what  use 
was  that  to  her  now?  He  did  not  desire 
her ;  he  was  in  love  with  Alice,  and  Alice 
was  in  love  with  him.  What  would  be 
the  sense — even  if  they  all  agreed — in 
the  three  of  them  making  themselves 
miserable  for  all  their  youth  that  they 
might  be  contented  in  their  old  age  ?  Let 
age  fend  for  itself  and  leave  youth  to 


80      THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE 

its  own  instincts.  Let  elderly  saints 
suffer — it  was  their  metier — and  youth 
drink  the  cup  of  life.  It  was  a  pity  Dick 
was  the  only  "  catch  "  available,  but 
he  was  young  and  handsome.  Other 
girls  had  to  put  up  with  sixty  and  the 
gout. 

Another  point,  a  very  serious  point, 
had  been  overlooked.  All  that  had  ar- 
rived to  them  in  that  dim  future  of  the 
past  had  happened  to  them  as  the  results 
of  their  making  the  marriages  they  had 
made.  To  what  fate  other  roads  would 
lead  their  knowledge  could  not  tell  them. 
Nellie  Fanshawe  had  become  at  forty  a 
lovely  character.  Might  not  the  hard 
life  she  had  led  with  her  husband — a  life 
calling  for  continual  sacrifice,  for  daily 
self-control—have  helped  towards  this 
end?  As  the  wife  of  a  poor  curate  of 
high  moral  principles,  would  the  same 
result  have  been  secured?  The  fever 
that  had  robbed  her  of  her  beauty  and 
turned  her  thoughts  inward  had  been 
the  result  of  sitting  out  on  the  balcony 
of  the  Paris  Opera  House  with  an  Italian 


THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE       81 

Count  on  the  occasion  of  a  fancy  dress 
ball.  As  the  wife  of  an  East  End  clergy- 
man the  chances  are  she  would  have 
escaped  that  fever  and  its  purifying 
effects.  Was  there  not  danger  in  the 
position:  a  supremely  beautiful  young 
woman,  worldly-minded,  hungry  for 
pleasure,  condemned  to  a  life  of  poverty 
with  a  man  she  did  not  care  for!  The 
influence  of  Alice  upon  Nathaniel  Armi- 
tage,  during  those  first  years  when  his 
character  was  forming,  had  been  all  for 
good.  Could  he  be  sure  that,  married 
to  Nellie,  he  might  not  have  deteri- 
orated ? 

Were  Alice  Blatchley  to  marry  an 
artist  could  she  be  sure  that  at  forty 
she  would  still  be  in  sympathy  with  ar- 
tistic ideals?  Even  as  a  child  had  not 
her  desire  ever  been  in  the  opposite  di- 
rection to  that  favoured  by  her  nurse? 
Did  not  the  reading  of  Conservative 
journals  invariably  incline  her  towards 
Eadicalism,  and  the  steady  stream  of 
Radical  talk  round  her  husband's  table 
invariably  set  her  seeking  arguments  in 


82      THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE 

favour  of  the  feudal  system?  Might  it 
not  have  been  her  husband's  growing 
Puritanism  that  had  driven  her  to  crave 
for  Bohemianism?  Suppose  that  to- 
wards middle  age,  the  wife  of  a  wild 
artist,  she  suddenly  "  took  religion,"  as 
the  saying  is.  Her  last  state  would  be 
worse  than  the  first. 

Camelford  was  of  delicate  physique. 
As  an  absent-minded  bachelor  with  no 
one  to  give  him  his  meals,  no  one  to  see 
that  his  things  were  aired,  could  he  have 
lived  till  forty?  Could  he  be  sure  that 
home  life  had  not  given  more  to  his  art 
than  it  had  taken  from  it? 

Jessica  Bearwood,  of  a  nervous, 
passionate  nature,  married  to  a  bad 
husband,  might  at  forty  have  posed  for 
one  of  the  Furies.  Not  until  her  life 
had  become  restful  had  her  good  looks 
shown  themselves.  Hers  was  the  type 
of  beauty  that  for  its  development  de- 
mands tranquillity. 

Dick  Everett  had  no  delusions  con- 
cerning himself.  That,  had  he  married 
Jessica,  he  could  for  ten  years  have  re- 


THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE       83 

mained  the  faithful  husband  of  a  singu- 
larly plain  wife  he  knew  to  be  impossi- 
ble. But  Jessica  would  have  been  no 
patient  Griselda.  The  extreme  proba- 
bility was  that  having  married  her  at 
twenty  for  the  sake  of  her  beauty  at 
thirty,  at  twenty-nine  at  latest  she  would 
have  divorced  him. 

Everett  was  a  man  of  practical  ideas. 
It  was  he  who  took  the  matter  in  hand. 
The  refreshment  contractor  admitted 
that  curious  goblets  of  German  glass  oc- 
casionally crept  into  their  stock.  One 
of  the  waiters,  on  the  understanding 
that  in  no  case  should  he  be  called  upon 
to  pay  for  them,  admitted  having  broken 
more  than  one  wine-glass  on  that  par- 
ticular evening:  thought  it  not  unlikely 
he  might  have  attempted  to  hide  the 
fragments  under  a  convenient  palm. 
The  whole  thing  evidently  was  a  dream. 
So  youth  decided  at  the  time,  and  the 
three  marriages  took  place  within  three 
months  of  one  another. 

It  was  some  ten  years  later  that  Anni- 
tage  told  me  the  story  that  night  in  the 


84      THE  PHILOSOPHER'S  JOKE 

Club  smoking-room.  Mrs.  Everett  had 
just  recovered  from  a  severe  attack  of 
rheumatic  fever,  contracted  the  spring 
before  in  Paris.  Mrs.  Camelf ord,  whom 
previously  I  had  not  met,  certainly 
seemed  to  me  one  of  the  handsomest 
women  I  have  ever  seen.  Mrs.  Armitage 
— I  knew  her  when  she  was  Alice  Blatch- 
ley — I  found  more  charming  as  a  woman 
than  she  had  been  as  a  girl.  What  she 
could  have  seen  in  Armitage  I  never 
could  understand.  Camelford  made  his 
mark  some  ten  years  later :  poor  fellow, 
he  did  not  live  long  to  enjoy  his  fame. 
Dick  Everett  has  still  another  six  years 
to  work  off ;  but  he  is  well  behaved,  and 
there  is  talk  of  a  petition. 

It  is  a  curious  story  altogether,  I  ad- 
mit. As  I  said  at  the  beginning,  I  do  not 
myself  believe  it. 


THE  SOUL  OF  NICHOLAS  SNY- 

DERS,  OR  THE  MISER  OF 

ZANDAM 

ONCE  upon  a  time  in  Zandam,  which  is 
by  the  Zuider  Zee,  there  lived  a  wicked 
man  named  Nicholas  Snyders.  He  was 
mean  and  hard  and  cruel,  and  loved  but 
one  thing  in  the  world,  and  that  was 
gold.  And  even  that  not  for  its  own 
sake.  He  loved  the  power  gold  gave  him 
— the  power  to  tyrannize  and  to  oppress, 
the  power  to  cause  suffering  at  his  will. 
They  said  he  had  no  soul,  but  there  they 
were  wrong.  All  men  own — or,  to  speak 
more  correctly,  are  owned  by — a  soul; 
and  the  soul  of  Nicholas  Snyders  was  an 
evil  soul.  He  lived  in  the  old  windmill 
which  still  is  standing  on  the  quay,  with 
only  little  Christina  to  wait  upon  him 
and  keep  house  for  him.  Christina  was 
an  orphan  whose  parents  had  died  in 

85 


86  THE  SOUL  OF 

debt.  Nicholas,  to  Christina's  everlast- 
ing gratitude,  had  cleared  their  memory 
— it  cost  but  a  few  hundred  florins — in 
consideration  that  Christina  should 
work  for  him  without  wages.  Christina 
formed  his  entire  household,  and  only 
one  willing  visitor  ever  darkened  his 
door,  the  widow  Toelast.  Dame  Toelast 
was  rich  and  almost  as  great  a  miser  as 
Nicholas  himself.  '  *  Why  should  not  we 
two  marry?  "  Nicholas  had  once  croaked 
to  the  widow  Toelast.  "  Together  we 
should  be  masters  of  all  Zandam." 
Dame  Toelast  had  answered  with  a 
cackling  laugh;  but  Nicholas  was  never 
in  haste. 

One  afternoon  Nicholas  Snyders  sat 
alone  at  his  desk  in  the  centre  of  the 
great  semi-circular  room  that  took  up 
half  the  ground  floor  of  the  windmill, 
and  that  served  him  for  an  office,  and 
there  came  a  knocking  at  the  outer  door. 

'  *  Come  in !  "  cried  Nicholas  Snyders. 

He  spoke  in  a  tone  quite  kind  for  Nich- 
olas Snyders.  He  felt  so  sure  it  was  Jan 
knocking  at  the  door — Jan  Van  der 


NICHOLAS  SNYDERS  87 

Voort,  the  young  sailor,  now  master  of 
his  own  ship,  come  to  demand  of  him 
the  hand  of  little  Christina.  In  antici- 
pation, Nicholas  Snyders  tasted  the  joy 
of  dashing  Jan's  hopes  to  the  ground; 
of  hearing  him  plead,  then  rave;  of 
watching  the  growing  pallor  that  would 
overspread  Jan's  handsome  face  as 
Nicholas  would,  point  by  point,  explain 
to  him  the  consequences  of  defiance—- 
how, firstly,  Jan's  old  mother  should  be 
turned  out  of  her  home,  his  old  father 
put  into  prison  for  debt;  how,  secondly, 
Jan  himself  should  be  pursued  without 
remorse,  his  ship  be  bought  over  his 
head  before  he  could  complete  the  pur- 
chase. The  interview  would  afford  to 
Nicholas  Snyders  sport  after  his  own 
soul.  Since  Jan's  return  the  day  before, 
he  had  been  looking  forward  to  it. 
Therefore,  feeling  sure  it  was  Jan,  he 
cried  "  Come  in!  "  quite  cheerily. 

But  it  was  not  Jan.  It  was  somebody 
Nicholas  Snyders  had  never  set  eyes  on 
before.  And  neither,  after  that  one 
visit,  did  Nicholas  Snyders  ever  set  eyes 


88  THE  SOUL  OF 

upon  him  again.  The  light  was  fading, 
and  Nicholas  Snyders  was  not  the  man 
to  light  candles  before  they  were  needed, 
so  that  he  was  never  able  to  describe 
with  any  precision  the  stranger's  ap- 
pearance. Nicholas  thought  he  seemed 
an  old  man,  but  alert  in  all  his  move- 
ments; while  his  eyes — the  one  thing 
about  him  Nicholas  saw  with  any 
clearness — were  curiously  bright  and 
piercing. 

"  Who  are  you?  "  asked  Nicholas 
Snyders,  taking  no  pains  to  disguise  his 
disappointment. 

"  I  am  a  pedlar,"  answered  the 
stranger.  His  voice  was  clear  and  not 
unmusical,  with  just  the  suspicion  of 
roguishness  behind. 

"  Not  wanting  anything,"  answered 
Nicholas  Snyders  drily.  "  Shut  the 
door  and  be  careful  of  the  step." 

But  instead  the  stranger  took  a  chair 
and  drew  it  nearer,  and,  himself  in 
shadow,  looked  straight  into  Nicholas 
Snyders'  face  and  laughed. 

"  Are  you  quite  sure,  Nicholas  Sny- 


NICHOLAS  SNYDERS  89 

ders  ?  Are  you  quite  sure  there  is  noth- 
ing you  require?  " 

"  Nothing,"  growled  Nicholas  Sny- 
ders — "  except  the  sight  of  your  back." 

The  stranger  bent  forward,  and  with 
his  long,  lean  hand  touched  Nicholas 
Snyders  playfully  upon  the  knee. 
"  Wouldn't  you  like  a  soul,  Nicholas 
Snyders?  "  he  asked. 

"  Think  of  it,"  continued  the  strange 
pedlar,  before  Nicholas  could  recover 
power  of  speech.  * '  For  forty  years  you 
have  drunk  the  joy  of  being  mean  and 
cruel.  Are  you  not  tired  of  the  taste, 
Nicholas  Snyders?  Wouldn't  you  like 
a  change?  Think  of  it,  Nicholas  Sny- 
ders— the  joy  of  being  loved,  of  hearing 
yourself  blessed,  instead  of  cursed! 
Wouldn't  it  be  good  fun,  Nicholas  Sny- 
ders— just  by  way  of  a  change?  If  you 
don't  like  it,  you  can  return  and  be  your- 
self again." 

What  Nicholas  Snyders,  recalling  all 
things  afterwards,  could  never  under- 
stand was  why  he  sat  there,  listening  in 
patience  to  the  stranger's  talk;  for,  at 


90  THE  SOUL  OF 

the  time,  it  seemed  to  him  the  jesting 
of  a  wandering  fool.  But  something 
about  the  stranger  had  impressed  him. 

"  I  have  it  with  me,"  continued  the 

odd  pedlar;  "  and  as  for  price " 

The  stranger  made  a  gesture  indicating 
dismissal  of  all  sordid  details.  "  I  look 
for  my  reward  in  watching  the  result 
of  the  experiment.  I  am  something  of  a 
philosopher.  I  take  an  interest  in  these 
matters.  See."  The  stranger  dived 
between  his  legs  and  produced  from  his 
pack  a  silver  flask  of  cunning  workman- 
ship and  laid  it  on  the  table. 

"  Its  flavour  is  not  unpleasant,"  ex- 
plained the  stranger.  "  A  little  bitter; 
but  one  does  not  drink  it  by  the  goblet : 
a  wineglassful,  such  as  one  would  of  old 
Tokay,  while  the  mind  of  both  is  fixed 
on  the  same  thought :  *  May  my  soul  pass 
into  him,  may  his  pass  into  me!  '  The 
operation  is  quite  simple :  the  secret  lies 
within  the  drug."  The  stranger  patted 
the  quaint  flask  as  though  it  had  been 
some  little  dog. 

1 1  You.  will  say :  '  Who  will  exchange 


NICHOLAS  SNYDERS  91 

souls  with  Nicholas  Snyders?  '  "  The 
stranger  appeared  to  have  come  pre- 
pared with  an  answer  to  all  questions. 
"  My  friend,  you  are  rich;  you  need  not 
fear.  It  is  the  possession  men  value  the 
least  of  all  they  have.  Choose  your  soul 
and  drive  your  bargain.  I  leave  that  to 
you  with  one  word  of  counsel  only:  you 
will  find  the  young  readier  than  the  old 
— the  young,  to  whom  the  world  prom- 
ises all  things  for  gold.  Choose  you  a 
fine,  fair,  fresh,  young  soul,  Nicholas 
Snyders;  and  choose  it  quickly.  Your 
hair  is  somewhat  grey,  my  friend.  Taste, 
before  you  die,  the  joy  of  living." 

The  strange  pedlar  laughed  and,  ris- 
ing, closed  his  pack.  Nicholas  Snyders 
neither  moved  nor  spoke,  until  with  the 
soft  clanging  of  the  massive  door  his 
senses  returned  to  him.  Then,  seizing 
the  flask  the  stranger  had  left  behind 
him,  he  sprang  from  his  chair,  meaning 
to  fling  it  after  him  into  the  street.  But 
the  flashing  of  the  firelight  on  its  bur- 
nished surface  stayed  his  hand. 

"  After  all,  the  case  is   of  value,'* 


92  THE  SOUL  OF 

Nicholas  chuckled,  and  put  the  flask 
aside  and,  lighting  the  two  tall  candles, 
buried  himself  again  in  his  green-bound 
ledger.  Yet  still  from  time  to  time  Nich- 
olas Snyders'  eye  would  wander  to 
where  the  silver  flask  remained  half 
hidden  among  dusty  papers.  And  later 
there  came  again  a  knocking  at  the  door, 
and  this  time  it  really  was  young  Jan 
who  entered. 

Jan  held  out  his  great  hand  across  the 
littered  desk. 

"  We  parted  in  anger,  Nicholas  Sny- 
ders. It  was  my  fault.  You  were  in 
the  right.  I  ask  you  to  forgive  me.  I 
was  poor.  It  was  selfish  of  me  to  wish 
the  little  maid  to  share  with  me  my 
poverty.  But  now  I  am  no  longer 
poor." 

11  Sit  down,"  responded  Nicholas  in 
kindly  tone.  "  I  have  heard  of  it.  So 
now  you  are  master  and  the  owner  of 
your  ship — your  very  own." 

"  My  very  own  after  one  more  voy- 
age," laughed  Jan.  "  I  have  Burgo- 
master Allart's  promise." 


NICHOLAS  SNYDERS  93 

"  A  promise  is  not  a  performance," 
hinted  Nicholas.  "  Burgomaster  Allart 
is  not  a  rich  man;  a  higher  bid  might 
tempt  him.  Another  might  step  in  be- 
tween you  and  become  the  owner." 

Jan  only  laughed.  *  *  Why,  that  would 
be  the  work  of  an  enemy,  which,  God  be 
praised,  I  do  not  think  that  I  possess. ' ' 

"  Lucky  lad!  "  commented  Nicholas; 
"  so  few  of  us  are  without  enemies.  And 
your  parents,  Jan,  will  they  live  with 
you?  " 

"  We  wished  it,"  answered  Jan, 
'  *  both  Christina  and  I.  But  the  mother 
is  feeble.  The  old  mill  has  grown  into 
her  life." 

' '  I  can  understand, ' '  agreed  Nicholas. 
"  The  old  vine  torn  from  the  old  wall 
withers.  And  your  father,  Jan;  people 
will  gossip.  The  mill  is  paying?  ' 

Jan  shook  his  head.  "  It  never  will 
again ;  and  the  debts  haunt  him.  But  all 
that,  as  I  tell  him,  is  a  thing  of  the  past. 
His  creditors  have  agreed  to  look  to  me 
and  wait." 

"  All  of  them?  "  queried  Nicholas. 


94  THE  SODL  OF 

"  All  of  them  I  could  discover," 
laughed  Jan. 

Nicholas  Snyders  pushed  back  his 
chair  and  looked  at  Jan  with  a  smile 
upon  his  wrinkled  face.  "  And  so  you 
and  Christina  have  arranged  it  all?  " 

"  With  your  consent,  sir,"  answered 
Jan. 

"  You  will  wait  for  that?  "  asked 
Nicholas. 

"  We  should  like  to  have  it,  sir." 

Jan  smiled,  but  the  tone  of  his  voice 
fell  agreeably  on  Nicholas  Snyders'  ear. 
Nicholas  Snyders  loved  best  beating  the 
dog  that  growled  and  showed  its  teeth. 

"  Better  not  wait  for  that,"  said 
Nicholas  Snyders.  "  You  might  have 
to  wait  long." 

Jan  rose,  an  angry  flush  upon  his 
face.  "  So  nothing  changes  you,  Nicho- 
las Snyders.  Have  it  your  own  way, 
then." 

"  You  will  marry  her  in  spite  of  me?  " 

"  In  spite  of  you  and  of  your  friends 
the  fiends,  and  of  your  master  the 
Devil!  "  flung  out  Jan.  For  Jan  had  a 


NICHOLAS  SNYDEES  95 

soul  that  was  generous  and  brave  and 
tender  and  excessively  short-tempered. 
Even  the  best  of  souls  have  their 
failings. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  old  Nicholas. 

'  *  I  am  glad  to  hear  it, ' '  answered  Jan. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  your  mother,"  ex- 
plained Nicholas.  "  The  poor  dame,  I 
fear,  will  be  homeless  in  her  old  age. 
The  mortgage  shall  be  foreclosed,  Jan, 
on  your  wedding-day.  I  am  sorry  for 
your  father,  Jan.  His  creditors,  Jan — 
you  have  overlooked  just  one.  I  am 
sorry  for  him,  Jan.  Prison  has  always 
been  his  dread.  I  am  sorry  even  for  you, 
my  young  friend.  You  will  have  to  be- 
gin life  over  again.  Burgomaster  Allart 
is  in  the  hollow  of  my  hand.  I  have  but 
to  say  the  word,  your  ship  is  mine.  I 
wish  you  joy  of  your  bride,  my  young 
friend.  You  must  love  her  very  dearly 
— you  will  be  paying  a  high  price  for 
her." 

It  was  Nicholas  Snyders'  grin  that 
maddened  Jan.  He  sought  for  some- 
thing that,  thrown  straight  at  the  wicked 


96  THE  SOUL  OF 

mouth,  should  silence  it,  and  by  chance 
his  hand  lighted  on  the  pedlar's  silver 
flask.  In  the  same  instance  Nicholas 
Snyders'  hand  had  closed  upon  it  also. 
The  grin  had  died  away. 

"  Sit  down,"  commanded  Nicholas 
Snyders.  "  Let  us  talk  further."  And 
there  was  that  in  his  voice  that  com- 
pelled the  younger  man's  obedience. 

' '  You  wonder,  Jan,  why  I  seek  always 
anger  and  hatred.  I  wonder  at  times 
myself.  Why  do  generous  thoughts 
never  come  to  me,  as  to  other  men? 
Listen,  Jan;  I  am  in  a  whimsical  mood. 
Such  things  cannot  be,  but  it  is  a  whim 
of  mine  to  think  it  might  have  been.  Sell 
me  your  soul,  Jan,  sell  me  your  soul, 
that  I,  too,  may  taste  this  love  and  glad- 
ness that  I  hear  about.  For  a  little 
while,  Jan,  only  for  a  little  while,  and  I 
will  give  you  all  you  desire." 

The  old  man  seized  his  pen  and  wrote. 
"  See,  Jan,  the  ship  is  yours  beyond 
mishap;  the  mill  goes  free;  your  father 
may  hold  up  his  head  again.  And  all 
I  ask,  Jan,  is  that  you  drink  to  me,  will- 


NICHOLAS  SNYDERS  97 

ing  the  while  that  your  soul  may  go  from 
you  and  become  the  soul  of  old  Nicholas 
Snyders — for  a  little  while,  Jan,  only 
for  a  little  while." 

With  feverish  hands  the  old  man  had 
drawn  the  stopper  from  the  pedlar's 
flagon,  had  poured  the  wine  into  twin 
glasses.  Jan's  inclination  was  to  laugh, 
but  the  old  man's  eagerness  was  almost 
frenzy.  Surely  he  was  mad;  but  that 
would  not  make  less  binding  the  paper 
he  had  signed.  A  true  man  does  not 
jest  with  his  soul,  but  the  face  of  Chris- 
tina was  shining  down  on  Jan  from  out 
the  gloom. 

"  You  will  mean  it?  "  whispered  Nich- 
olas Snyders. 

"  May  my  soul  pass  from  me  and 
enter  into  Nicholas  Snyders !  ' '  answered 
Jan,  replacing  his  empty  glass  upon  the 
table.  And  the  two  stood  looking  for  a 
moment  into  one  another's  eyes. 

And  the  high  candles  on  the  littered 
desk  flickered  and  went  out,  as  though  a 
breath  had  blown  them,  first  one  and 
then  the  other. 


98  THE  SOUL  OF 

"  I  must  be  getting  home,"  came  the 
voice  of  Jan  from  the  darkness.  i  (  Why 
did  you  blow  out  the  candles!  ' 

11  We  can  light  them  again  from  the 
fire,"  answered  Nicholas.  He  did  not 
add  that  he  had  meant  to  ask  that  same 
question  of  Jan.  He  thrust  them  among 
the  glowing  logs,  first  one  and  then  the 
other;  and  the  shadows  crept  back  into 
their  corners. 

"  You  will  not  stop  and  see  Chris- 
tina1? "  asked  Nicholas. 

"  Not  to-night,"  answered  Jan. 

"  The  paper  that  I  signed,"  Nicholas 
reminded  him — * '  you  have  it  ?  " 

"  I  had  forgotten  it,"  Jan  answered. 

The  old  man  took  it  from  the  desk  and 
handed  it  to  him.  Jan  thrust  it  into  his 
pocket  and  went  out.  Nicholas  bolted 
the  door  behind  him  and  returned  to  his 
desk;  sat  long  there,  his  elbow  resting 
on  the  open  ledger. 

Nicholas  pushed  the  ledger  aside  and 
laughed.  ' '  What  foolery !  As  if  such 
things"  could  be !  The  fellow  must  Have 
bewitched  me." 


NICHOLAS  SNYDERS  99 

Nicholas  crossed  to  the  fire  and 
wanned  his  hands  before  the  blaze. 
"  Still,  I  am  glad  he  is  going  to  marry 
the  little  lass.  A  good  lad,  a  good  lad." 

Nicholas  must  have  fallen  asleep  be- 
fore the  fire.  When  he  opened  his  eyes, 
it  was  to  meet  the  grey  dawn.  He  felt 
cold,  stiff,  hungry,  and  decidedly  cross. 
Why  had  not  Christina  woke  him  up  and 
given  him  his  supper.  Did  she  think  he 
had  intended  to  pass  the  night  on  a 
wooden  chair?  The  girl  was  an  idiot. 
He  would  go  upstairs  and  tell  her 
through  the  door  just  what  he  thought 
of  her. 

His  way  upstairs  led  through  the 
kitchen.  To  his  astonishment,  there  sat 
Christina,  asleep  before  the  burnt-out 
grate. 

' '  Upon  my  word, ' '  muttered  Nicholas 
to  himself,  "  people  in  this  house  don't 
seem  to  know  what  beds  are  for!  r 

But  it  was  not  Christina,  so  Nicholas 
told  himself.  Christina  had  the  look  of 
a  frightened  rabbit:  it  had  always  irri- 
tated him.  This  girl,  even  in  her  sleep, 


100  THE  SOUL  OF 

wore  an  impertinent  expression — a  de- 
lightfully impertinent  expression.  Be- 
sides, this  girl  was  pretty — marvellously 
pretty.  Indeed,  so  pretty  a  girl  Nicho- 
las had  never  seen  in  all  his  life  before. 
Why  had  the  girls,  when  Nicholas  was 
young,  been  so  entirely  different!  A 
sudden  bitterness  seized  Nicholas :  it  was 
as  though  he  had  just  learnt  that  long 
ago,  without  knowing  it,  he  had  been 
robbed. 

The  child  must  be  cold.  Nicholas 
fetched  his  fur-lined  cloak  and  wrapped 
it  about  her. 

There  was  something  else  he  ought  to 
do.  The  idea  came  to  him  while  drawing 
the  cloak  around  her  shoulders,  very 
gently,  not  to  disturb  her — something 
he  wanted  to  do,  if  only  he  could  think 
what  it  was.  The  girl's  lips  were  parted. 
She  appeared  to  be  speaking  to  him, 
asking  him  to  do  this  thing — or  telling 
him  not  to  do  it.  Nicholas  could  not  be 
sure  which.  Half  a  dozen  times  he 
turned  away,  and  half  a  dozen  times 
stole  back  to  where  she  sat  sleeping  with 


NICHOLAS  SNYDERS  101 

that  delightfully  impertinent  expression 
on  her  face,  her  lips  parted.  But  what 
she  wanted,  or  what  it  was  he  wanted, 
Nicholas  could  not  think. 

Perhaps  Christina  would  know.  Per- 
haps Christina  would  know  who  she  was 
and  how  she  got  there.  Nicholas  climbed 
the  stairs,  swearing  at  them  for 
creaking. 

Christina's  door  was  open.  No  one 
was  in  the  room;  the  bed  had  not  been 
slept  upon.  Nicholas  descended  the 
creaking  stairs. 

The  girl  was  still  asleep.  Could  it  be 
Christina  herself?  Nicholas  examined 
the  delicious  features  one  by  one.  Never 
before,  so  far  as  he  could  recollect,  had 
he  seen  the  girl;  yet  around  her  neck — 
Nicholas  had  not  noticed  it  before — lay 
Christina's  locket,  rising  and  falling  as 
she  breathed.  Nicholas  knew  it  well; 
the  one  thing  belonging  to  her  mother 
Christina  had  insisted  on  keeping.  The 
one  thing  about  which  she  had  ever  de- 
fied him.  She  would  never  have  parted 
with  that  locket.  It  must  be  Christina 


102  THE  SOUL  OF 

herself.    But  what  had  happened  to  her  ? 

Or  to  himself.  Remembrance  rushed 
in  upon  him.  The  odd  pedlar!  The 
seene  with  Jan !  But  surely  all  that  had 
been  a  dream1?  Yet  there  upon  the  lit- 
tered desk  still  stood  the  pedlar's  silver 
flask,  together  with  the  twin  stained 
glasses. 

Nicholas  tried  to  think,  but  his  brain 
was  in  a  whirl.  A  ray  of  sunshine 
streaming  through  the  window  fell 
across  the  dusty  room.  Nicholas  had 
never  seen  the  sun,  that  he  could  recol- 
lect. Involuntarily  he  stretched  his 
hands  towards  it,  felt  a  pang  of  grief 
when  it  vanished,  leaving  only  the  grey 
light.  He  drew  the  rusty  bolts,  flung 
open  the  great  door.  A  strange  world 
lay  before  him,  a  new  world  of  lights  and 
shadows,  that  wooed  him  with  their 
beauty — a  world  of  low,  soft  voices  that 
called  to  him.  There  came  to  him  again 
that  bitter  sense  of  having  been  robbed. 

"  I  could  have  been  so  happy  all  these 
years,"  murmured  old  Nicholas  to  him- 
self. "  It  is  just  the  little  town  I  could 


NICHOLAS  SNYDERS  103 

have  loved — so  quaint,  so  quiet,  so  home- 
like. I  might  have  had  friends,  old 
cronies,  children  of  my  own  maybe " 

A  vision  of  the  sleeping  Christina 
flashed  before  his  eyes.  She  had  come 
to  him  a  child,  feeling  only  gratitude  to- 
wards him.  Had  he  had  eyes  with  which 
to  see  her,  all  things  might  have  been 
different. 

Was  it  too  late  ?  He  is  not  so  old — not 
so  very  old.  New  life  is  in  his  veins. 
She  still  loves  Jan,  but  that  was  the  Jan 
of  yesterday.  In  the  future,  Jan's  every 
word  and  deed  will  be  prompted  by  the 
evil  soul  that  was  once  the  soul  of  Nicho- 
las Snyders — that  Nicholas  Snyders  re- 
members well.  Can  any  woman  love 
that,  let  the  case  be  as  handsome  as  you 
will? 

Ought  he,  as  an  honest  man,  to  keep 
the  soul  he  had  won  from  Jan  by  what 
might  be  called  a  trick?  Yes,  it  had  been 
a  fair  bargain,  and  Jan  had  taken  his 
price.  Besides,  it  was  not  as  if  Jan  had 
fashioned  his  own  soul ;  these  things  are 
chance.  Why  should  one  man  be  given 


104  THE  SOUL  OF 

gold,  and  another  be  given  parched  peas? 
He  has  as  much  right  to  Jan's  soul  as 
Jan  ever  had.  He  is  wiser,  he  can  do 
more  good  with  it.  It  was  Jan's  soul 
that  loved  Christina;  let  Jan's  soul  win 
her  if  it  can.  And  Jan's  soul,  listening 
to  the  argument,  could  not  think  of  a 
word  to  offer  in  opposition. 

Christina  was  still  asleep  when  Nicho- 
las re-entered  the  kitchen.  He  lighted 
the  fire  and  cooked  the  breakfast  and 
then  aroused  her  gently.  There  was  no 
doubt  it  was  Christina.  The  moment  her 
eyes  rested  on  old  Nicholas,  there  came 
back  to  her  the  frightened  rabbit  look 
that  had  always  irritated  him.  It  irri- 
tated him  now,  but  the  irritation  was 
against  himself. 

"  You  were  sleeping  so  soundly  when 

I  came  in  last  night "  Christina 

commenced. 

"  And  you  were  afraid  to  wake  me," 
Nicholas  interrupted  her.  1 1  You  thought 
the  old  curmudgeon  would  be  cross. 
Listen,  Christina.  You  paid  off  yester- 
day the  last  debt  your  father  owed.  It 


NICHOLAS  SNYDERS  105 

was  to  an  old  sailor — I  had  not  been  able 
to  find  him  before.  Not  a  cent  more  do 
you  owe,  and  there  remains  to  you,  out 
of  your  wages,  a  hundred  florins.  It  is 
yours  whenever  you  like  to  ask  me 
for  it." 

Christina  could  not  understand, 
neither  then  nor  during  the  days  that 
followed ;  nor  did  Nicholas  enlighten  her. 
For  the  soul  of  Jan  had  entered  into  a 
very  wise  old  man,  who  knew  that  the 
best  way  to  live  down  the  past  is  to  live 
boldly  the  present.  All  that  Christina 
could  be  sure  of  was  that  the  old  Nich- 
olas Snyders  had  mysteriously  vanished, 
that  in  his  place  remained  a  new  Nicho- 
las, who  looked  at  her  with  kindly  eyes 
— frank  and  honest,  compelling  confi- 
dence. Though  Nicholas  never  said  so, 
it  came  to  Christina  that  she  herself, 
her  sweet  example,  her  ennobling  influ- 
ence it  was  that  had  wrought  this  won- 
drous change.  And  to  Christina  the 
explanation  seemed  not  impossible — 
seemed  even  pleasing. 

The  sight  of  his  littered  desk  was  hate- 


106  THE  SOUL  OF 

ful  to  him.  Starting  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, Nicholas  would  disappear  for  the 
entire  day,  returning  in  the  evening 
tired  but  cheerful,  bringing  with  him 
flowers  that  Christina  laughed  at,  tell- 
ing him  they  were  weeds.  But  what  mat- 
tered names?  To  Nicholas  they  were 
beautiful.  In  Zandam  the  children  ran 
from  him,  the  dogs  barked  after  him. 
So  Nicholas,  escaping  through  byways, 
would  wander  far  into  the  country. 
Children  in  the  villages  around  came  to 
know  a  kind  old  fellow  who  loved  to 
linger,  his  hands  resting  on  his  staff, 
watching  their  play,  listening  to  their 
laughter;  whose  ample  pockets  were 
storehouses  of  good  things.  Their 
elders,  passing  by,  would  whisper  to  one 
another  how  like  he  was  in  features  to 
wicked  old  Nick,  the  miser  of  Zandam, 
and  would  wonder  where  he  came  from. 
Nor  was  it  only  the  faces  of  the  children 
that  taught  his  lips  to  smile.  It  trou- 
bled him  at  first  to  find  the  world  so  full 
of  marvellously  pretty  girls — of  pretty 
women  also,  all  more  or  less  lovable.  It 


NICHOLAS  SNYDERS  107 

bewildered  him.  Until  he  found  that, 
notwithstanding,  Christina  remained  al- 
ways in  his  thoughts  the  prettiest,  the 
most  lovable  of  them  all.  Then  every 
pretty  face  rejoiced  him:  it  reminded 
him  of  Christina. 

On  his  return  the  second  day,  Chris- 
tina had  met  him  with  sadness  in  her 
eyes.  Farmer  Beerstraater,  an  old 
friend  of  her  father's,  had  called  to  see 
Nicholas;  not  finding  Nicholas,  had 
talked  a  little  with  Christina.  A  hard- 
hearted creditor  was  turning  him  out  of 
his  farm.  Christina  pretended  not  to 
know  that  the  creditor  was  Nicholas  him- 
self, but  marvelled  that  such  wicked  men 
could  be.  Nicholas  said  nothing,  but  the 
next  day  Farmer  Beerstraater  had  called 
again,  all  smiles,  blessings,  and  great 
wonder. 

"  But  what  can  have  come  to  him?  " 
repeated  Farmer  Beerstraater  over  and 
over. 

Christina  had  smiled  and  answered 
that  perhaps  the  good  God  had  touched 
his  heart;  but  thought  to  herself  that 


108  THE  SOUL  OF 

perhaps  it  had  been  the  good  influence 
of  another.  The  tale  flew.  Christina 
found  herself  besieged  on  every  hand, 
and,  rinding  her  intercessions  invariably 
successful,  grew  day  by  day  more 
pleased  with  herself,  and  by  consequence 
more  pleased  with  Nicholas  Snyders. 
For  Nicholas  was  a  cunning  old  gentle- 
man. Jan's  soul  in  him  took  delight  in 
undoing  the  evil  the  soul  of  Nicholas  had 
wrought.  But  the  brain  of  Nicholas 
Snyders  that  remained  to  him  whis- 
pered: "  Let  the  little  maid  think  it  is 
all  her  doing. ' ' 

The  news  reached  the  ears  of  Dame 
Toelast.  The  same  evening  saw  her 
seated  in  the  inglenook  opposite  Nicho- 
las Snyders,  who  smoked  and  seemed 
bored. 

"  You  are  making  a  fool  of  your- 
self, Nicholas  Snyders,"  the  Dame 
told  him.  "  Everybody  is  laughing  at 
you." 

"  I  had  rather  they  laughed  than 
cursed  me!  "  growled  Nicholas. 

"  Have  you   forgotten   all   that  has 


NICHOLAS  SNYDERS  109 

passed  between  us?  "  demanded  the 
Dame. 

"  Wish  I  could,"  sighed  Nicholas. 

"  At  your  age "  commenced  the 

Dame. 

* l  I  am  feeling  younger  than  I  ever  felt 
in  all  my  life, ' '  Nicholas  interrupted  her. 

"  You  don't  look  it,"  commented  the 
Dame. 

"  What  do  looks  matter?  "  snapped 
Nicholas.  "  It  is  the  soul  of  a  man  that 
is  the  real  man." 

"  They  count  for  something,  as  the 
world  goes,"  explained  the  Dame. 
"  Why,  if  I  liked  to  follow  your  exam- 
ple and  make  a  fool  of  myself,  there  are 
young  men,  fine  young  men,  handsome 
young  men " 

"  Don't  let  me  stand  in  your  way," 
interposed  Nicholas  quickly.  "  As  you 
say,  I  am  old  and  I  have  a  devil  of  a 
temper.  There  must  be  many  better  men 
than  I  am,  men  more  worthy  of  you." 

"  I  don't  say  there  are  not,"  returned 
the  Dame:  "  but  nobody  more  suitable. 
Girls  for  boys,  and  old  women  for  old 


110  THE  SOUL  OF 

men.  I  haven't  lost  my  wits,  Nicholas 
Snyders,  if  you  have.  When  you  are 
yourself  again " 

Nicholas  Snyders  sprang  to  his  feet. 
"  I  am  myself,"  he  cried,  "  and  intend 
to  remain  myself !  Who  dares  say  I  am 
not  myself?  " 

"  I  do,"  retorted  the  Dame  with  ex- 
asperating coolness.  "  Nicholas  Sny- 
ders is  not  himself  when  at  the  bidding 
of  a  pretty-faced  doll  he  flings  his  money 
out  of  the  window  with  both  hands.  He 
is  a  creature  bewitched,  and  I  am  sorry 
for  him.  She'll  fool  you  for  the  sake  of 
her  friends  till  you  haven't  a  cent  left, 
and  then  she'll  laugh  at  you.  When  you 
are  yourself,  Nicholas  Snyders,  you  will 
be  crazy  with  yourself  —  remember 
that."  And  Dame  Toelast  marched  out 
and  slammed  the  door  behind  her. 

"  Girls  for  boys,  and  old  women  for 
old  men."  The  phrase  kept  ringing  in 
his  ears.  Hitherto  his  new-found  hap- 
piness had  filled  his  life,  leaving  no  room 
for  thought.  But  the  old  Dame's  words 
had  sown  the  seed  of  reflection. 


NICHOLAS  SNYDERS  111 

Was  Christina  fooling  him?  The 
thought  was  impossible.  Never  once 
had  she  pleaded  for  herself,  never  once 
for  Jan.  The  evil  thought  was  the 
creature  of  Dame  Toelast's  evil  mind. 
Christina  loved  him.  Her  face  bright- 
ened at  his  coming.  The  fear  of  him  had 
gone  out  of  her;  a  pretty  tyranny  had 
replaced  it.  But  was  it  the  love  that  he 
sought?  Jan's  soul  in  old  Nick's  body 
was  young  and  ardent.  It  desired  Chris- 
tina not  as  a  daughter,  but  as  a  wife. 
Could  it  win  her  in  spite  of  old  Nick's 
body!  The  soul  of  Jan  was  an  impa- 
tient soul.  Better  to  know  than  to 
doubt. 

1 1  Do  not  light  the  candles ;  let  us  talk 
a  little  by  the  light  of  the  fire  only, ' '  said 
Nicholas.  And  Christina,  smiling,  drew 
her  chair  towards  the  blaze.  But  Nicho- 
las sat  in  the  shadow. 

'  *  You  grow  more  beautiful  every  day, 
Christina,"  said  Nicholas — "  sweeter 
and  more  womanly.  He  will  be  a  happy 
man  who  calls  you  wife. ' ' 

The   smile   passed   from   Christina's 


112  THE  SOUL  OP 

face.  "  I  shall  never  marry,"  she 
answered. 

"  Never  is  a  long  word,  little  one." 

"  A  true  woman  does  not  marry  the 
man  she  does  not  love." 

' '  But  may  she  not  marry  the  man  she 
does?  "  smiled  Nicholas. 

"  Sometimes  she  may  not,"  Christina 
explained. 

"  And  when  is  that?  " 

Christina's  face  was  turned  away. 
"  When  he  has  ceased  to  love 
her." 

The  soul  in  old  Nick's  body  leapt  with 
joy.  "  He  is  not  worthy  of  you,  Chris- 
tina. His  new  fortune  has  changed  him. 
Is  it  not  so?  He  thinks  only  of  money. 
It  is  as  though  the  soul  of  a  miser  had 
entered  into  him.  He  would  marry  even 
Dame  Toelast  for  the  sake  of  her  gold- 
bags  and  her  broad  lands  and  her  many 
mills,  if  only  she  would  have  him.  Can- 
not you  forget  him?  " 

"  I  shall  never  forget  him.  I  shall 
never  love  another  man.  I  try  to  hide  it ; 
and  often  I  am  content  to  find  there  is  so 


NICHOLAS  SNYDERS  113 

much  in  the  world  that  I  can  do.  But  my 
heart  is  breaking."  She  rose  and,  kneel- 
ing beside  him,  clasped  her  hands  around 
him.  "  I  am  glad  you  have  let  me  tell 
you,"  she  said.  "  But  for  you  I  could 
not  have  borne  it.  You  are  so  good 
to  me." 

For  answer  he  stroked  with  his  with- 
ered hand  the  golden  hair  that  fell  dis- 
ordered about  his  withered  knees.  She 
raised  her  eyes  to  him;  they  were  filled 
with  tears,  but  smiling. 

"  I  cannot  understand,"  she  said.  "  I 
think  sometimes  that  you  and  he  must 
have  changed  souls.  He  is  hard  and 
mean  and  cruel,  as  you  used  to  be. ' '  She 
laughed,  and  the  arms  around  him  tight- 
ened for  a  moment.  '  *  And  now  you  are 
kind  and  tender  and  great,  as  once  he 
was.  It  is  as  if  the  good  God  had  taken 
away  my  lover  from  me  to  give  to  me  a 
father." 

"  Listen  to  me,  Christina,"  he  said. 
"  It  is  the  soul  that  is  the  man,  not  the 
body.  Could  you  not  love  me  for  my 
new  soul?  " 


114  THE  SOUL  OF 

11  But  I  do  love  you,"  answered  Chris- 
tina, smiling  through  her  tears. 

"  Could  you  as  a  husband?  " 

The  firelight  fell  upon  her  face.  Nicho- 
las, holding  it  between  his  withered 
hands,  looked  into  it  long  and  hard ;  and 
reading  what  he  read  there,  laid  it  back 
against  his  breast  and  soothed  it  with 
his  withered  hand. 

"  I  was  jesting,  little  one,"  he  said. 
* '  Girls  for  boys,  and  old  women  for  old 
men.  And  so,  in  spite  of  all,  you  still 
love  Jan?  " 

"  I  love  him,"  answered  Christina. 
"  I  cannot  help  it." 

"  And  if  he  would,  you  would  marry 
him,  let  his  soul  be  what  it  may?  " 

"  I  love  him,"  answered  Christina. 
"  I  cannot  help  it." 

Old  Nicholas  sat  alone  before  the  dy- 
ing fire.  Is  it  the  soul  or  the  body  that 
is  the  real  man  ?  The  answer  was  not  so 
simple  as  he  had  thought  it. 

"  Christina  loved  Jan  " — so  Nicholas 
mumbled  to  the  dying  fire — "  when  he 
had  the  soul  of  Jan.  She  loves  him  still, 


NICHOLAS  SNYDEES  115 

though  he  has  the  soul  of  Nicholas  Sny- 
ders.  When  I  asked  her  if  she  could 
love  me,  it  was  terror  I  read  in  her  eyes, 
though  Jan's  soul  is  now  in  me;  she 
divined  it.  It  must  be  the  body  that  is 
the  real  Jan,  the  real  Nicholas.  If  the 
soul  of  Christina  entered  into  the  body 
of  Dame  Toelast,  should  I  turn  from 
Christina,  from  her  golden  hair,  her 
fathomless  eyes,  her  asking  lips,  to  de- 
sire the  shrivelled  carcass  of  Dame  Toe- 
last?  No;  I  should  still  shudder  at  the 
thought  of  her.  Yet  when  I  had  the  soul 
of  Nicholas  Snyders,  I  did  not  loathe 
her,  while  Christina  was  naught  to  me. 
It  must  be  with  the  soul  that  we  love, 
else  Jan  would  still  love  Christina  and  I 
should  be  Miser  Nick.  Yet  here  am  I  lov- 
ing Christina,  using  Nicholas  Snyders' 
brain  and  gold  to  thwart  Nicholas  Sny- 
ders' every  scheme,  doing  everything 
that  I  know  will  make  him  mad  when 
he  comes  back  into  his  own  body;  while 
Jan  cares  no  longer  for  Christina,  would 
marry  Dame  Toelast  for  her  broad 
lands,  her  many  mills.  Clearly  it  is  the 


116  THE  SOUL  OF 

soul  that  is  the  real  man.  Then  ought 
I  not  to  be  glad,  thinking  I  am  going 
back  into  my  own  body,  knowing  that  I 
shall  wed  Christina  1  But  I  am  not  glad ; 
I  am  very  miserable.  I  shall  not  go  with 
Jan's  soul,  I  feel  it;  my  own  soul  will 
come  back  to  me.  I  shall  be  again  the 
hard,  cruel,  mean  old  man  I  was  before, 
only  now  I  shall  be  poor  and  helpless. 
The  folks  will  laugh  at  me,  and  I  shall 
curse  them,  powerless  to  do  them  evil. 
Even  Dame  Toelast  will  not  want  me 
when  she  learns  all.  And  yet  I  must  do 
this  thing.  So  long  as  Jan's  soul  is  in 
me,  I  love  Christina  better  than  myself. 
I  must  do  this  for  her  sake.  I  love  her — 
I  cannot  help  it." 

Old  Nicholas  rose,  took  from  the  place, 
where  a  month  before  he  had  hidden  it, 
the  silver  flask  of  cunning  workmanship. 

"  Just  two  more  glassfuls  left," 
mused  Nicholas,  as  he  gently  shook  the 
flask  against  his  ear.  He  laid  it  on  the 
desk  before  him,  then  opened  once  again 
the  old  green  ledger,  for  there  still  re- 
mained work  to  be  done. 


NICHOLAS  SNYDERS  117 

He  woke  Christina  early.  "  Take 
these  letters,  Christina,"  he  commanded. 
' '  When  you  have  delivered  them  all,  but 
not  before,  go  to  Jan ;  tell  him  I  am  wait- 
ing here  to  see  him  on  a  matter  of  busi- 
ness." He  kissed  her  and  seemed  loth 
to  let  her  go. 

*  *  I  shall  only  be  a  little  while, '  '  smiled 
Christina. 

"  All  partings  take  but  a  little  while," 
he  answered. 

Old  Nicholas  had  foreseen  the  trouble 
he  would  have.  Jan  was  content,  had 
no  desire  to  be  again  a  sentimental 
young  fool,  eager  to  saddle  himself  with 
a  penniless  wife.  Jan  had  other  dreams. 

*  *  Drink,  man,  drink !  ' '  cried  Nicholas 
impatiently,  "  before  I  am  tempted  to 
change  my  mind.     Christina,  provided 
you  marry  her,  is  the  richest  bride  in 
Zandam.     There  is  the  deed;  read  it; 
and  read  quickly." 

Then  Jan  consented,  and  the  two  men 
drank.  And  there  passed  a  breath  be- 
tween them  as  before ;  and  Jan  with  his 
hands  covered  his  eyes  a  moment. 


118  THE  SOUL  OF 

It  was  a  pity,  perhaps,  that  he  did  so, 
for  in  that  moment  Nicholas  snatched  at 
the  deed  that  lay  beside  Jan  on  the  desk. 
The  next  instant  it  was  blazing  in  the 
fire. 

"  Not  so  poor  as  you  thought!  "  came 
the  croaking  voice  of  Nicholas.  "  Not  so 
poor  as  you  thought !  I  can  build  again, 
I  can  build  again !  ' :  And  the  creature, 
laughing  hideously,  danced  with  its  with- 
ered arms  spread  out  before  the  blaze, 
lest  Jan  should  seek  to  rescue  Chris- 
tina's burning  dowry  before  it  was 
destroyed. 

Jan  did  not  tell  Christina.  In  spite 
of  all  Jan  could  say,  she  would  go  back. 
Nicholas  Snyders  drove  her  from  the 
door  with  curses.  She  could  not  under 
stand.  The  only  thing  clear  was  that 
Jan  had  come  back  to  her. 

1 '  'Twas  a  strange  madness  that  seized 
upon  me,"  Jan  explained.  "  Let  the 
good  sea  breezes  bring  us  health." 

So  from  the  deck  of  Jan's  ship  they 
watched  old  Zandam  till  it  vanished  into 
air. 


NICHOLAS  SNYDERS  119 

Christina  cried  a  little  at  the  thought 
of  never  seeing  it  again;  but  Jan  com- 
forted her  and  later  new  faces  hid  the 
old. 

And  old  Nicholas  married  Dame  Toe- 
last,  but,  happily,  lived  to  do  evil  only 
for  a  few  years  longer. 

Long  after,  Jan  told  Christina  the 
whole  story,  but  it  sounded  very  im- 
probable, and  Christina  —  though,  of 
course,  she  did  not  say  so — did  not  quite 
believe  it,  but  thought  Jan  was  trying  to 
explain  away  that  strange  month  of  his 
life  during  which  he  had  wooed  Dame 
Toelast.  Yet  it  certainly  was  strange 
that  Nicholas,  for  the  same  short  month, 
had  been  so  different  from  his  usual  self. 

"Perhaps,"  thought  Christina,  "if 
I  had  not  told  him  I  loved  Jan,  he  would 
not  have  gone  back  to  his  old  ways.  Poor 
old  gentleman!  No  doubt  it  was 
despair." 


MRS.  KORNER  SINS  HER 
MERCIES 

"  I  DO  mean  it,"  declared  Mrs.  Korner, 
"  Hike  a  man  to  be  a  man." 

"  But  you  would  not  like  Christopher 
— I  mean  Mr.  Korner — to  be  that  sort  of 
man,"  suggested  her  bosom  friend. 

11  I  don't  mean  that  I  should  like  it  if 
he  did  it  often.  But  I  should  like  to  feel 
that  he  was  able  to  be  that  sort  of  man. — 
Have  you  told  your  master  that  break- 
fast is  ready?  "  demanded  Mrs.  Korner 
of  the  domestic  staff,  entering  at  the 
moment  with  three  boiled  eggs  and  a 
teapot. 

"  Yus,  iVe  told  'im,"  replied  the  staff 
indignantly. 

The  domestic  staff  at  Acacia  Villa, 
Ravenscourt  Park,  lived  in  a  state  of 
indignation.  It  could  be  heard  of  morn- 
ings and  evenings  saying  its  prayers 
indignantly. 

120 


MRS.  KORNER  SINS  HER  MERCIES    121 

1  'What  did  he  say?  " 

"  Said  'e'll  be  down  the  moment  Vs 
dressed." 

"  Nobody  wants  him  to  come  before," 
commented  Mrs.  Korner.  "  Answered 
me  that  he  was  putting  on  his  collar 
when  I  called  up  to  him  five  minutes 
ago. ' ' 

"  Answer  yer  the  same  thing  now,  if 
yer  called  up  to  'im  agen,  I  'spect, ' '  was 
the  opinion  of  the  staff.  "  Was  on  'is 
'ands  and  knees  when  I  looked  in,  scoop- 
ing round  under  the  bed  for  'is  collar 
stud." 

Mrs.  Korner  paused  with  the  teapot 
in  her  hand.  "  Was  he  talking?  " 

"  Talkin'?  Nobody  there  to  talk  to; 
I  'adn't  got  no  time  to  stop  and  chatter." 

"  I  mean  to  himself,"  explained  Mrs. 
Korner.  "  He — he  wasn't  swearing?  " 
There  was  a  note  of  eagerness,  almost 
of  hope,  in  Mrs.  Korner 's  voice. 

'  *  Swearin ' !  'E !  Why,  'e  don 't  know 
any." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Mrs.  Korner. 
1 '  That  will  do,  Harriet ;  you  may  go. ' ' 


122  MRS.  KORNER 

Mrs.  Korner  put  down  the  teapot  with 
a  bang.  "  The  very  girl,"  said  Mrs. 
Korner  bitterly, ' '  the  very  girl  despises 
him." 

11  Perhaps,"  suggested  Miss  Greene, 
"  he  had  been  swearing  and  had  fin- 
ished." 

But  Mrs.  Korner  was  not  to  be  com- 
forted. "  Finished!  Any  other  man 
would  have  been  swearing  all  the 
time. ' ' 

"  Perhaps,"  suggested  the  kindly 
bosom  friend,  ever  the  one  to  plead  the 
cause  of  the  transgressor,  "  perhaps  he 
was  swearing,  and  she  did  not  hear  him. 
You  see,  if  he  had  his  head  well  under- 
neath the  bed " 

The  door  opened. 

"  Sorry  I  am  late,"  said  Mr.  Korner, 
bursting  cheerfully  into  the  room.  It 
was  a  point  with  Mr.  Korner  always  to 
be  cheerful  in  the  morning.  '  *  Greet  the 
day  with  a  smile  and  it  will  leave  you 
with  a  blessing,"  was  the  motto  Mrs. 
Korner,  this  day  a  married  woman  of 
six  months  and  three  weeks'  standing, 


SINS  HER  MERCIES  123 

had  heard  her  husband  murmur  before 
getting  out  of  bed  on  precisely  two  hun- 
dred and  two  occasions.  The  Motto  en- 
tered largely  into  the  scheme  of  Mr. 
Korner's  life.  Written  in  fine  copper- 
plate upon  cards  all  of  the  same  size, 
a  choice  selection  counselled  him  each 
morning  from  the  rim  of  his  shaving- 
glass. 

"  Did  you  find  it?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Korner. 

''It  is  most  extraordinary,"  replied 
Mr.  Korner,  as  he  seated  himself  at  the 
breakfast-table.  "  I  saw  it  go  under  the 
bed  with  my  own  eyes.  Perhaps " 

"  Don't  ask  me  to  look  for  it,"  inter- 
rupted Mrs.  Korner.  "  Crawling  about 
on  their  hands  and  knees,  knocking  their 
heads  against  iron  bedsteads,  would  be 
enough  to  make  some  people  swear." 
The  emphasis  was  on  the  "  some." 

"It  is  not  bad  training  for  the  char- 
acter," hinted  Mr.  Korner,  "  occasion- 
ally to  force  oneself  to  perform  patiently 
tasks  calculated " 

"  If  you  get  tied  up  in  one  of  those 


124  MRS.  KORNER 

long  sentences  of  yours,  you  will  never 
get  out  in  time  to  eat  your  breakfast," 
was  the  fear  of  Mrs.  Korner. 

"  I  should  be  sorry  for  anything  to 
happen  to  it,"  remarked  Mr.  Korner, 
"  its  intrinsic  value  may  perhaps " 

"  I  will  look  for  it  after  breakfast," 
volunteered  the  amiable  Miss  Greene. 
"  I  am  good  at  finding  things." 

"  I  can  well  believe  it,"  the  gallant 
Mr.  Korner  assured  her,  as  with  the 
handle  of  his  spoon  he  peeled  his  egg. 
"  From  such  bright  eyes  as  yours, 
few " 

"  YouVe  only  got  ten  minutes,"  his 
wife  reminded  him.  "  Do  get  on  with 
your  breakfast." 

11  I  should  like,"  said  Mr.  Korner, 
"  to  finish  a  speech  occasionally." 

"  You  never  would,"  asserted  Mrs. 
Korner. 

"  I  should  like  to  try,"  sighed  Mr. 
Korner,  "  one  of  these  days " 

"  How  did  you  sleep,  dear?  I  forgot 
to  ask  you,"  questioned  Mrs.  Korner  of 
the  bosom  friend. 


SINS  HER  MERCIES  125 

"  I  am  always  restless  in  a  strange 
bed  the  first  night,"  explained  Miss 
'Greene.  "  I  daresay,  too,  I  was  a  little 
excited.'' 

"  I  could  have  wished,"  said  Mr.  Kor- 
ner,  "  it  had  been  a  better  example  of 
the  delightful  art  of  the  dramatist. 
When  one  goes  but  seldom  to  the 
theatre " 

"  One  wants  to  enjoy  oneself,"  inter- 
rupted Mrs.  Korner. 

"  I  really  do  not  think,"  said  the 
bosom  friend,  *  *  that  I  haye  ever  laughed 
so  much  in  all  my  life." 

*  *  It  was  amusing.  I  laughed  myself, ' ' 
admitted  Mr.  Korner.  "  At  the  same 
time  I  cannot  help  thinking  that  to  treat 
drunkenness  as  a  theme " 

"  He  wasn't  drunk,"  argued  Mrs. 
Korner,  "  he  was  just  jovial." 

"  My  dear!  "  Mr.  Korner  corrected 
her,  "  he  simply  couldn't  stand." 

"  He  was  much  more  amusing  than 
some  people  who  can,"  retorted  Mrs. 
Korner. 

"  It  is  possible,  my  dear  Aimee,"  her 


126  MRS.  KORNER 

husband  pointed  out  to  her,  ' '  for  a  man 
to  be  amusing  without  being  drunk ;  also 
for  a  man  to  be  drunk  without " 

"  Oh,  a  man  is  all  the  better,"  de- 
clared Mrs.  Korner,  "  for  letting  him- 
self go  occasionally." 

"  My  dear " 

"  You,  Christopher,  would  be  all  the 
better  for  letting  yourself  go — occa- 
sionally. ' ' 

"  I  wish,"  said  Mr.  Korner,  as  he 
passed  his  empty  cup,  "  you  would  not 
say  things  you  do  not  mean.  Anyone 
hearing  you " 

' '  If  there 's  one  thing  makes  me  more 
angry  than  another, ' '  said  Mrs.  Korner, 
"  it  is  being  told  I  say  things  that  I  do 
not  mean." 

"  Why  say  them  then?  "  suggested 
Mr.  Korner. 

"  I  don't.  I  do — I  mean  I  do  mean 
them,"  explained  Mrs.  Korner. 

"  You  can  hardly  mean,  my  dear," 
persisted  her  husband,  ' '  that  you  really 
think  I  should  be  all  the  better  for  get- 
ting drunk — even  occasionally." 


SINS  HER  MERCIES  127 

"  I  didn't  say  drunk;  I  said  '  going 
it.'  " 

"  But  I  do  *  go  it '  in  moderation," 
pleaded  Mr.  Korner,  "  '  Moderation  in 
all  things,'  that  is  my  motto." 

"  I  know  it,"  returned  Mrs.  Korner. 

"  A  little  of  everything  and  noth- 
ing  "  this  time  Mr.  Korner  inter- 
rupted himself.  "  I  fear,"  said  Mr. 
Korner,  rising,  "  we  must  postpone  the 
further  discussion  of  this  interesting 
topic.  If  you  would  not  mind  stepping 
out  with  me  into  the  passage,  dear,  there 
are  one  or  two  little  matters  connected 
with  the  house " 

Host  and  hostess  squeezed  past  the 
visitor  and  closed  the  door  behind  them. 
The  visitor  continued  eating. 

"  I  do  mean  it,"  repeated  Mrs.  Kor- 
ner, for  the  third  time,  reseating  herself 
a  minute  later  at  the  table.  "  I  would 
give  anything  —  anything, ' '  reiterated 
the  lady  recklessly,  "  to  see  Christo- 
pher more  like  the  ordinary  sort  of 
man." 

"  But  he  has  always  been  the  sort — 


128  MRS.  KORNER 

the  sort  of  man  he  is,"  her  bosom  friend 
reminded  her. 

"  Oh,  during  the  engagement,  of 
course,  one  expects  a  man  to  be  perfect. 
I  didn't  think  he  was  going  to  keep  it 
up." 

"  He  seems  to  me,"  said  Miss  Greene, 
"  a  dear,  good  fellow.  You  are  one  of 
those  people  who  never  know  when  they 
are  well  off." 

"  I  know  he  is  a  good  fellow,"  agreed 
Mrs.  Korner,  "  and  I  am  very  fond  of 
him.  It  is  just  because  I  am  fond  of  him 
that  I  hate  feeling  ashamed  of  him.  I 
want  him  to  be  a  manly  man,  to  do  the 
things  that  other  men  do." 

"  Do  all  the  ordinary  sort  of  men 
swear  and  get  occasionally  drunk?  " 

11  Of  course  they  do,"  asserted  Mrs. 
Korner,  in  a  tone  of  authority.  One 
does  not  want  a  man  to  be  a  milksop." 

11  Have  you  ever  seen  a  drunken 
man?  "  inquired  the  bosom  friend,  who 
was  nibbling  sugar. 

"  Heaps,"  replied  Mrs.  Korner,  who 
was  sucking  marmalade  off  her  fingers. 


SINS  HER  MERCIES  129 

By  which  Mrs.  Korner  meant  that 
some  half  a  dozen  times  in  her  life  she 
had  visited  the  play,  choosing  by  pref- 
erence the  lighter  form  of  British  drama. 
The  first  time  she  witnessed  the  real 
thing,  which  happened  just  precisely  a 
month  later,  long  after  the  conversation 
here  recorded  had  been  forgotten  by  the 
parties  most  concerned,  no  one  could 
have  been  more  utterly  astonished  than 
was  Mrs.  Korner. 

How  it  came  about  Mr.  Korner  was 
never  able  to  fully  satisfy  himself.  Mr. 
Korner  was  not  the  type  that  serves 
the  purpose  of  the  temperance  lecturer. 
His  "  first  glass  "  he  had  drunk  more 
years  ago  than  he  could  recollect,  and 
since  had  tasted  the  varied  contents  of 
many  others.  But  never  before  had  Mr. 
Korner  exceeded,  nor  been  tempted  to 
exceed,  the  limits  of  his  favourite  vir- 
tue, moderation. 

1 '  We  had  one  bottle  of  claret  between 
us,"  Mr.  Korner  would  often  recall  to 
his  mind,  "  of  which  he  drank  the 
greater  part.  And  then  he  brought  out 


130  MRS.  KORNEE 

the  little  green  flask.  He  said  it  was 
made  from  pears — that  in  Peru  they 
kept  it  specially  for  children's  parties. 
Of  course,  that  may  have  been  his  joke ; 
but  in  any  case  I  cannot  see  how  just 
one  glass — I  wonder  could  I  have  taken 
more  than  one  glass  while  he  was  talk- 
ing." It  was  a  point  that  worried  Mr. 
Korner. 

The  "  he  "  who  had  talked,  possibly, 
to  such  bad  effect  was  a  distant  cousin 
of  Mr.  Korner 's,  one  Bill  Damon,  chief 
mate  of  the  steamship  La  Fortuna. 
Until  their  chance  meeting  that  after- 
noon in  Leadenhall  Street,  they  had  not 
seen  each  other  since  they  were  boys  to- 
gether. The  Fortuna  was  leaving  St. 
Katherine's  Docks  early  the  next  morn- 
ing bound  for  South  America,  and  it 
might  be  years  before  they  met  again. 
As  Mr.  Damon  pointed  out,  Fate,  by 
thus  throwing  them  into  each  other's 
arms,  clearly  intended  they  should  have 
a  cosy  dinner  together  that  very  evening 
in  the  captain's  cabin  of  the  Fortuna. 
Mr.  Korner,  returning  to  the  office,  des- 


SINS  HER  MERCIES  131 

patched  to  Ravenscourt  Park  an  ex- 
press letter,  announcing  the  strange 
news  that  he  might  not  be  home  that 
evening  much  before  ten,  and  at  half- 
past  six,  for  the  first  time  since  his  mar- 
riage, directed  his  steps  away  from  home 
and  Mrs.  Korner. 

The  two  friends  talked  of  many  things. 
And  later  on  they  spoke  of  sweethearts 
and  of  wives.  Mate  Damon's  experi- 
ences had  apparently  been  wide  and 
varied.  They  talked — or,  rather,  the 
mate  talked,  and  Mr.  Korner  listened — 
of  the  olive-tinted  beauties  of  the  Span- 
ish Main,  of  the  dark-eyed  passionate 
Creoles,  of  the  blond  Junos  of  the  Cali- 
fornian  valleys.  The  mate  had  theories 
concerning  the  care  and  management  of 
women:  theories  that,  if  the  mate's 
word  could  be  relied  upon,  had  stood 
the  test  of  studied  application.  A  new 
world  opened  out  to  Mr.  Korner ;  a  world 
where  lovely  women  worshipped  with 
doglike  devotion  men  who,  though  lov- 
ing them  in  return,  knew  how  to  be  their 
masters.  Mr.  Korner,  warmed  gradu- 


132  MRS.  KORNER 

ally  from  cold  disapproval  to  bub- 
bling appreciation,  sat  entranced.  Time 
alone  set  a  limit  to  the  recital  of  the 
mate's  adventures.  At  eleven  o'clock 
the  cook  reminded  them  that  the  cap- 
tain and  the  pilot  might  be  aboard  at  any 
moment.  Mr.  Korner,  surprised  at  the 
lateness  of  the  hour,  took  a  long  and 
tender  farewell  of  his  cousin,  and  found 
St.  Katherine's  Docks  one  of  the  most 
bewildering  places  out  of  which  he  had 
ever  tried  to  escape.  Under  a  lamp-post 
in  the  Minories,  it  suddenly  occurred  to 
Mr.  Korner  that  he  was  an  unappreci- 
ated man.  Mrs.  Korner  never  said  and 
did  the  sort  of  things  by  means  of  which 
the  beauties  of  the  Southern  Main  en- 
deavoured feebly  to  express  their  con- 
suming passion  for  gentlemen  superior 
in  no  way — as  far  as  he  could  see — to 
Mr.  Korner  himself.  Thinking  over  the 
sort  of  things  Mrs.  Korner  did  say  and 
did  do,  tears  sprung  into  Mr.  Korner 's 
eyes.  Noticing  that  a  policeman  was 
eyeing  him  with  curiosity,  he  dashed 
them  aside  and  hurried  on.  Pacing  the 


SINS  HER  MERCIES  133 

platform  of  the  Mansion  House  Station, 
where  it  is  always  draughty,  the  thought 
of  his  wrongs  returned  to  him  with  re- 
newed force.  Why  was  there  no  trace  of 
doglike  devotion  about  Mrs.  Korner? 
The  fault — so  he  bitterly  told  himself — 
the  fault  was  his.  * '  A  woman  loves  her 
master;  it  is  her  instinct,"  mused  Mr. 
Korner  to  himself.  '  *  Damme, ' '  thought 
Mr.  Korner,  "  I  don't  believe  that  half 
her  time  she  knows  I  am  her  master." 

"  Go  away,"  said  Mr.  Korner  to  a 
youth  of  pasty  appearance  who,  with 
open  mouth,  had  stopped  immediately  in 
front  of  him. 

"I'm  fond  o'  listening,"  explained 
the  pasty  youth. 

"  Who's  talking?  "  demanded  Mr. 
Korner. 

"  You  are,"  replied  the  pasty  youth. 

It  is  a  long  journey  from  the  city  to 
Kavenscourt  Park,  but  the  task  of  plan- 
ning out  the  future  life  of  Mrs.  Korner 
and  himself  kept  Mr.  Korner  wide  awake 
and  interested.  When  he  got  out  of  the 
train  the  thing  chiefly  troubling  him  was 


134  MRS.  KORNER 

the  three-quarters  of  a  mile  of  muddy 
road  stretching  between  him  and  his  de- 
termination to  make  things  clear  to  Mrs. 
Korner  then  and  there. 

The  sight  of  Acacia  Villa,  suggesting 
that  everybody  was  in  bed  and  asleep, 
served  to  further  irritate  him.  A  dog- 
like  wife  would  have  been  sitting  up  to 
see  if  there  was  anything  he  wanted. 
Mr.  Korner,  acting  on  the  advice  of  his 
own  brass  plate,  not  only  knocked  but 
also  rang.  As  the  door  did  not  imme- 
diately fly  open,  he  continued  to  knock 
and  ring.  The  window  of  the  best  bed- 
room on  the  first  floor  opened. 

"  Is  that  you?  "  said  the  voice  of  Mrs. 
K^orner.  There  was,  as  it  happened,  a 
distinct  suggestion  of  passion  in  Mrs. 
Korner 's  voice,  but  not  of  the  passion 
Mr.  Korner  was  wishful  to  inspire.  It 
made  him  a  little  more  angry  than  he 
was  before. 

"  Don't  you  talk  to  me  with  your  head 
out  of  the  window  as  if  this  were  a  gal- 
lanty  show.  You  come  down  and  open 
the  door,"  commanded  Mr.  Korner. 


SINS  HER  MERCIES  135 

"  Haven't  you  got  your  latchkey?  ' 
demanded  Mrs.  Korner. 

For  answer  Mr.  Korner  attacked  the 
door  again.  The  window  closed.  The 
next  moment  but  six  or  seven,  the  door 
was  opened  with  such  suddenness  that 
Mr.  Korner,  still  gripping  the  knocker, 
was  borne  inward  in  a  flying  attitude. 
Mrs.  Korner  had  descended  the  stairs 
ready  with  a  few  remarks.  She  had 
not  anticipated  that  Mr.  Korner, 
usually  slow  of  speech,  could  be  even 
readier. 

"  Where's  my  supper?  "  indignantly 
demanded  Mr.  Korner,  still  supported 
by  the  knocker. 

Mrs.  Korner,  too  astonished  for 
words,  simply  stared. 

"  Where's  my  supper?  "  repeated  Mr, 
Korner,  by  this  time  worked  up  into 
genuine  astonishment  that  it  was  not 
ready  for  him.  "  What's  everybody 
mean,  going  off  to  bed,  when  the  mas- 
terororous  hasn't  had  his  supper?  ' 

"  Is  anything  the  matter,  dear?  "  was 
heard  the  voice  of  Miss  Greene,  speaking 


136  MRS.  KORNER 

from  the  neighbourhood  of  the  first 
landing. 

"  Come  in,  Christopher,"  pleaded 
Mrs.  Korner,  "  please  come  in,  and  let 
me  shut  the  door." 

Mrs.  Korner  was  the  type  of  young 
lady  fond  of  domineering  with  a  not  un- 
graceful hauteur  over  those  accustomed 
to  yield  readily  to  her;  it  is  a  type  that 
is  easily  frightened. 

"  I  wan'  grilled  kinneys-on-toast,"  ex- 
plained Mr.  Korner,  exchanging  the 
knocker  for  the  hat-stand,  and  wishing 
the  next  moment  that  he  had  not. 
"  Don'  let's  'avareytalk  about  it.  Un- 
nerstan  "?  I  do  wan'  any  talk  about 
it." 

"  What  on  earth  am  I  to  do?  "  whis- 
pered the  terrified  Mrs.  Korner  to  her 
bosom  friend,  "  there  isn't  a  kidney  in 
the  house." 

"  I  should  poach  him  a  couple  of 
eggs,"  suggested  the  helpful  bosom 
friend;  "  put  plenty  of  Cayenne  pepper 
on  them.  Very  likely  he  won't  re- 
member." 


SINS  HER  MERCIES  137 

Mr.  Korner  allowed  himself  to  be  per- 
suaded into  the  dining-room,  which  was 
also  the  breakfast  parlour  and  the  li- 
brary. The  two  ladies,  joined  by  the 
hastily  clad  staff,  whose  chronic  indig- 
nation seemed  to  have  vanished  in  face 
of  the  first  excuse  for  it  that  Acacia  Villa 
had  afforded  her,  made  haste  to  light  the 
kitchen  fire. 

"  I  should  never  have  believed  it," 
whispered  the  white-faced  Mrs.  Korner, 
"  never." 

"  Makes  yer  know  there's  a  man  about 
the  'ouse,  don't  it?  "  chirped  the  de- 
lighted staff.  Mrs.  Korner,  for  answer, 
boxed  the  girl's  ears;  it  relieved  her 
feelings  to  a  slight  extent. 

The  staff  retained  its  equanimity,  but 
the  operations  of  Mrs.  Korner  and  her 
bosom  friend  were  retarded  rather  than 
assisted  by  the  voice  of  Mr.  Korner, 
heard  every  quarter  of  a  minute,  roaring 
out  fresh  directions. 

"  I  dare  not  go  in  alone,"  said  Mrs. 
Korner,  when  all  things  were  in  order 
on  the  tray.  So  the  bosom  friend  fol- 


138  MRS.  KORNER 

lowed  her,  and  the  staff  brought  up  the 
rear. 

"  What's  this?  "  frowned  Mr.  Kor- 
ner.  * '  I  told  you  chops. ' ' 

"I'm  so  sorry,  dear,"  faltered  Mrs. 
Korner,  "  but  there  weren't  any  in  the 
house." 

"  In  a  perfectly  organizedouse,  such 
as  for  the  future  I  meanterave, "  con- 
tinued Mr.  Korner,  helping  himself 
to  beer,  "  there  should  always  be 
chopanteak.  Unnerstanme  ?  chopan- 
teak!" 

"  I'll  try  and  remember,  dear,"  said 
Mrs.  Korner. 

"  Pearsterme,"  said  Mr.  Korner,  be- 
tween mouthfuls,  "  you're  norrer  sort 
of  housekeeper  I  want." 

"I'll  try  to  be,  dear,"  pleaded  Mrs. 
Korner. 

"  Where's  your  books?  "  Mr.  Korner 
suddenly  demanded. 

"  My  books?  "  repeated  Mrs.  Korner, 
in  astonishment. 

Mr.  Korner  struck  the  corner  of  the 
table  with  his  fist,  which  made  most 


SINS  HER  MERCIES  139 

things  in  the  room,  including  Mrs.  Kor- 
ner,  jump. 

"  Don't  you  defy  me,  my  girl,'*  said 
Mr.  Korner.  "  You  know  whatermean, 
your  housekeepin'  books." 

They  happened  to  be  in  the  drawer  of 
the  chiffonier.  Mrs.  Korner  produced 
them,  and  passed  them  to  her  husband 
with  a  trembling  hand.  Mr.  Korner, 
opening  one  by  hazard,  bent  over  it  with 
knitted  brows. 

1 1  Pearsterme,  my  girl,  you  can't  add, ' ' 
said  Mr.  Korner. 

"  I — I  was  always  considered  rather 
good  at  arithmetic,  as  a  girl,"  stam- 
mered Mrs.  Korner. 

"  What  you  mayabeen  as  a  girl, 
and  what — twenner-seven  and  nine?  " 
fiercely  questioned  Mr.  Korner. 

"  Thirty-eight-seven,"  commenced  to 
blunder  the  terrified  Mrs.  Korner. 

"  Know  your  nine  tables  or  don't 
you?  "  thundered  Mr.  Korner. 

"  I  used  to,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Korner. 

"  Say  it,"  commanded  Mr.  Korner. 

"  Nine  times  one  are  nine,"  sobbed 


140  MRS.  KORNEB 

the  poor  little  woman,  "  nine  times 
two " 

"  Goron,"  said  Mr.  Korner  sternly. 

She  went  on  steadily,  in  a  low  mono- 
tone, broken  by  stifled  sobs.  The  dreary 
rhythm  of  the  repetition  may  possibly 
have  assisted.  As  she  mentioned  fear- 
fully that  nine  times  eleven  were  ninety- 
nine,  Miss  Greene  pointed  stealthily  to- 
ward the  table.  Mrs.  Korner,  glancing 
up  fearfully,  saw  that  the  eyes  of  her 
lord  and  master  were  closed;  heard  the 
rising  snore  that  issued  from  his  head, 
resting  between  the  empty  beer-jug  and 
the  cruet  stand. 

"  He  will  be  all  right, "  counselled 
Miss  Greene.  "  You  go  to  bed  and  lock 
yourself  in.  Harriet  and  I  will  see  to 
his  breakfast  in  the  morning.  It  will  be 
just  as  well  for  you  to  be  out  of  the 
way. ' ' 

And  Mrs.  Korner,  only  too  thankful 
for  some  one  to  tell  her  what  to  do, 
obeyed  in  all  things. 

Toward  seven  o'clock  the  sunlight 
streaming  into  the  room  caused  Mr. 


SINS  HER  MERCIES  141 

Korner  first  to  blink,  then  yawn,  then 
open  half  an  eye. 

"  Greet  the  day  with  a  smile,"  mur- 
mured Mr.  Korner,  sleepily,  "  and  it 
will » 

Mr.  Korner  sat  up  suddenly  and 
looked  about  him.  This  was  not  bed. 
The  fragments  of  a  jug  and  glass  lay 
scattered  round  his  feet.  To  the  table- 
cloth an  overturned  cruet-stand  mingled 
with  egg  gave  colour.  A  tingling  sensa- 
tion about  his  head  called  for  investiga- 
tion. Mr.  Korner  was  forced  to  the  con- 
clusion that  somebody  had  been  trying 
to  make  a  salad  of  him — somebody  with 
an  exceptionally  heavy  hand  for  mus- 
tard. A  sound  directed  Mr.  Korner 's 
attention  to  the  door. 

The  face  of  Miss  Greene,  portent- 
ously grave,  was  peeping  through  the 
jar. 

Mr.  Korner  rose.  Miss  Greene  en- 
tered stealthily,  and,  closing  the  door, 
stood  with  her  back  against  it. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  what — what 
you've  done?  "  suggested  Miss  Greene. 


142  MRS.  KORNER 

She  spoke  in  a  sepulchral  tone; 
it  chilled  poor  Mr.  Korner  to  the 
bone. 

11  It  is  beginning  to  come  back  to  me, 
but  not — not  very  clearly,"  admitted 
Mr.  Korner. 

"  You  came  home  drunk  —  very 
drunk,"  Miss  Greene  informed  him, 
"  at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning.  The 
noise  you  made  must  have  awakened 
half  the  street." 

A  groan  escaped  from  his  parched 
lips. 

"  You  insisted  upon  Aimee  cooking 
you  a  hot  supper. ' ' 

"  I  insisted!  "  Mr.  Korner  glanced 
down  upon  the  table.  "  And — and  she 
did  it!  " 

"  You  were  very  violent,"  explained 
Miss  Greene ;  * '  we  were  terrified  at  you, 
all  three  of  us. ' '  Regarding  the  pathetic 
object  in  front  of  her,  Miss  Greene  found 
it  difficult  to  recollect  that  a  few  hours 
before  she  really  had  been  frightened 
of  it.  Sense  of  duty  alone  restrained  her 
present  inclination  to  laugh. 


SINS  HER  MERCIES  143 

"  While  you  sat  there,  eating  your 
supper,"  continued  Miss  Greene  re- 
morselessly, "  you  made  her  bring  you 
her  books." 

Mr.  Korner  had  passed  the  stage  when 
anything  could  astonish  him. 

"  You  lectured  her  about  her  house- 
keeping." There  was  a  twinkle  in  the 
eye  of  Mrs.  Korner 's  bosom  friend.  But 
lightning  could  have  flashed  before  Mr. 
Korner 's  eyes  without  his  noticing  it 
just  then. 

* '  You  told  her  that  she  could  not  add, 
and  you  made  her  say  her  tables." 

"  I  made  her — "  Mr.  Korner  spoke 
in  the  emotionless  tones  of  one  merely 
desiring  information.  "  I  made  Aimee 
say  her  tables?  " 

"  Her  nine  times,"  nodded  Miss 
Greene. 

Mr.  Korner  sat  down  upon  his  chair 
and  stared  with  stony  eyes  into  the 
future. 

"  What's  to  be  done?  "  said  Mr.  Kor- 
ner, "  she'll  never  forgive  me;  I  know 
her.  You  are  not  chaffing  me  ?  "  he  cried 


144  MRS.  KORNER 

with  a  momentary  gleam  of  hope.  "  I 
really  did  it?  " 

*  *  You  sat  in  that  very  chair  where  you 
are  sitting  now  and  ate  poached  eggs, 
while  she  stood  opposite  to  you  and  said 
her  nine  times  table.  At  the  end  of  it, 
seeing  you  had  gone  to  sleep  yourself,  I 
persuaded  her  to  go  to  bed.  It  was  three 
o'clock,  and  we  thought  you  would  not 
mind."  Miss  Greene  drew  up  a  chair, 
and,  with  her  elbows  on  the  table,  looked 
across  at  Mr.  Korner.  Decidedly  there 
was  a  twinkle  in  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Kor- 
ner's  bosom  friend. 

"  You'll  never  do  it  again,"  suggested 
Miss  Greene. 

"  Do  you  think  it  possible,"  cried 
Mr.  Korner,  "  that  she  may  forgive 


"  No,  I  don't,"  replied  Miss  Greene. 
At  which  Mr.  Korner 's  face  fell  back 
to  zero.  "  I  think  the  best  way  out  will 
be  for  you  to  forgive  her." 

The  idea  did  not  even  amuse  him. 
Miss  Greene  glanced  round  to  satisfy 
herself  that  the  door  was  still  closed,  and 


SINS  HER  MERCIES  145 

listened  a  moment  to  assure  herself  of 
the  silence. 

"  Don't  you  remember,"  Miss  Greene 
took  the  extra  precaution  to  whisper  it, 
"  the  talk  we  had  at  breakfast-time  the 
first  morning  of  my  visit,  when  Aimee 
said  you  would  be  all  the  better  for  '  go- 
ing it  '  occasionally?  " 

Yes,  slowly  it  came  back  to  Mr. 
Korner.  But  she  only  said  "  going 
it,"  Mr.  Korner  recollected  to  his 
dismay. 

"  Well,  you've  been  '  going  it,'  : '  per- 
sisted Miss  Greene.  "  Besides,  she  did 
not  mean  '  going  it. '  She  meant  the  real 
thing,  only  she  did  not  like  to  say  the 
word.  We  talked  about  it  after  you  had 
gone.  She  said  she  would  give  anything 
to  see  you  more  like  the  ordinary  man. 
And  that  is  her  idea  of  the  ordinary 
man. ' ' 

Mr.  Korner 's  sluggishness  of  compre- 
hension irritated  Miss  Greene.  She 
leaned  across  the  table  and  shook  him. 
"  Don't  you  understand?  You  have 
done  it  on  purpose  to  teach  her  a  lesson. 


146  MRS.  KORNER 

It  is  she  who  has  got  to  ask  you  to  for- 
give her." 

"  You  think !  " 

"  I  think,  if  you  manage  it  properly, 
it  will  be  the  best  day's  work  you  have 
ever  done.  Get  out  of  the  house  before 
she  wakes.  I  shall  say  nothing  to  her. 
Indeed,  I  shall  not  have  the  time ;  I  must 
catch  the  ten  o'clock  from  Paddington. 
When  you  come  home  this  evening,  you 
talk  first;  that's  what  you've  got  to  do." 
And  Mr.  Korner,  in  his  excitement, 
kissed  the  bosom  friend  before  he  knew 
what  he  had  done. 

Mrs.  Korner  sat  waiting  for  her  hus- 
band that  evening  in  the  drawing-room. 
She  was  dressed  as  for  a  journey,  and 
about  the  corners  of  her  mouth  were 
lines  familiar  to  Christopher,  the  sight 
of  which  sent  his  heart  into  his  boots. 
Fortunately,  he  recovered  himself  in 
time  to  greet  her  with  a  smile.  It  was 
not  the  smile  he  had  been  rehearsing  half 
the  day,  but  that  it  was  a  smile  of 
any  sort  astonished  the  words  away 
from  Mrs.  Korner 's  lips,  and  gave 


SINS  HER  MERCIES  147 

him  the  inestimable  advantage  of  first 
speech. 

"  Well/'  said  Mr.  Korner  cheerily, 
"  and  how  did  you  like  it?  " 

For  the  moment  Mrs.  Korner  feared 
her  husband's  new  complaint  had  al- 
ready reached  the  chronic  stage,  but  his 
still  smiling  face  reassured  her — to  that 
extent  at  all  events. 

"  When  would  you  like  me  to  '  go  it ' 
again?  Oh,  come,"  continued  Mr.  Kor- 
ner in  response  to  his  wife's  bewilder- 
ment, "  you  surely  have  not  forgotten 
the  talk  we  had  at  breakfast-time — the 
first  morning  of  Mildred's  visit.  You 
hinted  how  much  more  attractive  I 
should  be  for  occasionally  f  letting  my- 
self go!  '  " 

Mr.  Korner,  watching  intently,  per- 
ceived that  upon  Mrs.  Korner  recollec- 
tion was  slowly  forcing  itself. 

' '  I  was  unable  to  oblige  you  before, ' ' 
explained  Mr.  Korner,  "  having  to  keep 
my  head  clear  for  business,  and  not 
knowing  what  the  effect  upon  one  might 
be.  Yesterday  I  did  my  best,  and  I  hope 


148  MRS.  KORNER 

you  are  pleased  with  me.  Though,  if 
you  could  see  your  way  to  being  content 
— just  for  the  present  and  until  I  get 
more  used  to  it — with  a  similar  per- 
formance not  oftener  than  once  a  fort- 
night, say,  I  should  be  grateful,"  added 
Mr.  Korner. 

"  You  mean — "  said  Mrs.  Korner, 
rising. 

1 '  I  mean,  my  dear, ' '  said  Mr.  Korner, 
"  that  almost  from  the  day  of  our  mar- 
riage you  have  made  it  clear  that  you 
regard  me  as  a  milksop.  You  have  got 
your  notion  of  men  from  silly  books  and 
sillier  plays,  and  your  trouble  is  that 
I  am  not  like  them.  "Well,  I've  shown 
you  that,  if  you  insist  upon  it,  I  can  be 
like  them." 

"  But  you  weren't,"  argued  Mrs. 
Korner,  "  not  a  bit  like  them." 

11  I  did  my  best,"  repeated  Mr.  Kor- 
ner; "  we  are  not  all  made  alike.  That 
was  my  drunk." 

"I  didn't  say  '  drunk.'  " 

"  But  you  meant  it,"  interrupted  Mr. 
Korner.  "  We  were  talking  about 


SINS  HER  MERCIES  149 

drunken  men.  The  man  in  the  play 
was  drunk.  You  thought  him  amus- 
ing. " 

11  He  was  amusing,"  persisted  Mrs. 
Korner,  now  in  tears.  "  I  meant  that 
sort  of  drunk." 

"  His  wife,"  Mr.  Korner  reminded 
her,  "  didn't  find  him  amusing.  In  the 
third  act  she  was  threatening  to  return 
home  to  her  mother,  which,  if  I  may 
judge  from  finding  you  here  with  all 
your  clothes  on,  is  also  the  idea  that  has 
occurred  to  you." 

"  But  you — you  were  so  awful," 
whimpered  Mrs.  Korner. 

"  What  did  I  do?  "  questioned  Mr. 
Korner. 

"  You  came  hammering  at  the 
door " 

"  Yes,  yes,  I  remember  that.  I 
wanted  my  supper,  and  you  poached  me 
a  couple  of  eggs.  What  happened  after 
that?  " 

The  recollection  of  that  crowning  in- 
dignity lent  to  her  voice  the  true  note 
of  tragedy. 


150  MRS.  KORNER  SINS  HER  MERCIES 

"  You  made  me  say  my  tables — my 
nine  times !  '  ' 

Mr.  Korner  looked  at  Mrs.  Korner, 
and  Mrs.  Korner  looked  at  Mr.  Korner, 
and  for  a  while  there  was  silence. 

"  Were  you — were  you  really  a  little 
bit  on, ' '  faltered  Mrs.  Korner, ' l  or  only 
pretending1?  " 

11  Eeally,"  confessed  Mr.  Korner. 
"  For  the  first  time  in  my  life.  If  you 
are  content,  for  the  last  time  also." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Mrs.  Korner, 
' '  I  have  been  very  silly.  Please  forgive 
me." 


THE  COST  OF  KINDNESS 


"  KINDNESS,"  argued  little  Mrs.  Penny- 
coop,  "  costs  nothing." 

"  And,  speaking  generally,  my  dear, 
is  valued  precisely  at  cost  price,"  re- 
torted Mr.  Pennycoop,  who,  as  an  auc- 
tioneer of  twenty  years '  experience,  had 
enjoyed  much  opportunity  of  testing  the 
attitude  of  the  public  towards  sentiment. 

"  I  don't  care  what  you  say,  George," 
persisted  his  wife;  "  he  may  be  a  dis- 
agreeable, cantankerous  old  brute — I 
don't  say  he  isn't.  All  the  same,  the 
man  is  going  away,  and  we  may  never 
see  him  again." 

11  If  I  thought  there  was  any  fear  of 
our  doing  so,"  observed  Mr.  Pennycoop, 
"I'd  turn  my  back  on  the  Church  of 
England  to-morrow  and  become  a 
Methodist." 

"  Don't  talk  like  that,  George,"  his 

151 


152       THE  COST  OF  KINDNESS 

wife  admonished  him,  reprovingly ; ' '  the 
Lord  might  be  listening  to  you. ' ' 

11  If  the  Lord  had  to  listen  to  old 
Cracklethorpe  He'd  sympathize  with 
me, ' '  was  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Pennycoop. 

"  The  Lord  sends  us  our  trials,  and 
they  are  meant  for  our  good, ' '  explained 
his  wife.  "  They  are  meant  to  teach  us 
patience." 

"  You  are  not  churchwarden,"  re- 
torted her  husband ;  ' '  you  can  get  away 
from  him.  You  hear  him  when  he  is  in 
the  pulpit,  where,  to  a  certain  extent,  he 
is  bound  to  keep  his  temper." 

"  You  forget  the  rummage  sale, 
George,"  Mrs.  Pennycoop  reminded 
him;  "  to  say  nothing  of  the  church 
decorations." 

"  The  rummage  sale,"  Mr.  Pennycoop 
pointed  out  to  her,  "  occurs  only  once  a 
year,  and  at  that  time  your  own  temper, 
I  have  noticed " 

"  I  always  try  to  remember  I  am  a 
Christian,"  interrupted  little  Mrs.  Pen- 
nycoop. ' '  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  a  saint, 
but  whatever  I  say  I  am  always  sorry 


THE  COST  OF  KINDNESS       153 

for  it  afterwards — you  know  I  am, 
George. ' ' 

"  It's  what  I  am  saying,"  explained 
her  husband.  "  A  vicar  who  has  con- 
trived in  three  years  to  make  every  mem- 
ber of  his  congregation  hate  the  very 
sight  of  a  church — well,  there's  some- 
thing wrong  about  it  somewhere." 

Mrs.  Pennycoop,  gentlest  of  little 
women,  laid  her  plump  and  still  pretty 
hands  upon  her  husband's  shoulders. 
11  Don't  think,  dear,  I  haven't  sympa- 
thized with  you.  You  have  borne  it 
nobly.  I  have  marvelled  sometimes  that 
you  have  been  able  to  control  yourself 
as  you  have  done,  most  times ;  the  things 
that  he  has  said  to  you." 

Mr.  Pennycoop  had  slid  unconsciously 
into  an  attitude  suggestive  of  petrified 
virtue,  lately  discovered. 

"  One's  own  poor  self,"  observed  Mr. 
Pennycoop,  in  accents  of  proud  humility 
— ' '  insults  that  are  merely  personal  one 
can  put  up  with.  Though  even  there," 
added  the  senior  churchwarden,  with 
momentary  descent  towards  the  plane 


154       THE  COST  OF  KINDNESS 

of  human  nature,  *  *  nobody  cares  to  have 
it  hinted  publicly  across  the  vestry  table 
that  one  has  chosen  to  collect  from 
the  left  side  for  the  express  purpose 
of  artfully  passing  over  one's  own 
family. ' ' 

"  The  children  have  always  had  their 
three-penny-bits  ready  waiting  in  their 
hands,"  explained  Mrs.  Pennycoop, 
indignantly. 

' '  It 's  the  sort  of  thing  he  says  merely 
for  the  sake  of  making  a  disturbance," 
continued  the  senior  churchwarden. 
"  It's  the  things  he  does  I  draw  the 
line  at." 

"  The  things  he  has  done,  you  mean, 
dear,"  laughed  the  little  woman,  with 
the  accent  on  the  "  has. "  "  It  is  all  over 
now,  and  we  are  going  to  be  rid  of  him. 
I  expect,  dear,  if  we  only  knew,  we 
should  find  it  was  his  liver.  You  know, 
George,  I  remarked  to  you  the  first  day 
that  he  came  how  pasty  he  looked  and 
what  a  singularly  unpleasant  mouth  he 
had.  People  can't  help  these  things,  you 
know,  dear.  One  should  look  upon  them 


THE  COST  OF  KINDNESS       155 

in  the  light  of  afflictions  and  be  sorry 
for  them." 

"  I  could  forgive  him  doing  what  he 
does  if  he  didn't  seem  to  enjoy  it,"  said 
the  senior  churchwarden.  "  But,  as  you 
say,  dear,  he  is  going,  and  all  I  hope  and 
pray  is  that  we  never  see  his  like  again." 

"  And  you'll  come  with  me  to  call 
upon  him,  George,"  urged  kind  little 
Mrs.  Pennycoop.  "  After  all,  he  has 
been  our  vicar  for  three  years,  and  he 
must  be  feeling  it,  poor  man — whatever 
he  may  pretend — going  away  like  this, 
knowing  that  everybody  is  glad  to  see 
the  back  of  him. ' ' 

"  Well,  I  sha'n't  say  anything  I  don't 
really  feel,"  stipulated  Mr.  Pennycoop. 

"  That  will  be  all  right,  dear," 
laughed  his  wife,  "  so  long  as  you  don't 
say  what  you  do  feel.  And  we'll  both 
of  us  keep  our  temper,"  further  sug- 
gested the  little  woman, ' '  whatever  hap- 
pens. Eemember,  it  will  be  for  the  last 
time. ' ' 

Little  Mrs.  Pennycoop 's  intention 
was  kind  and  Christianlike.  The  Eev. 


Augustus  Crackletkorpe  would  be  quit- 
ting Wychwood-on-the-Heath  the  follow- 
ing Monday,  never  to  set  foot — so  the 
Eev.  Augustus  Cracklethorpe  himself 
and  every  single  member  of  his  congre- 
gation hoped  sincerely — in  the  neigh- 
bourhood again.  Hitherto  no  pains  had 
been  taken  on  either  side  to  disguise  the 
mutual  joy  with  which  the  parting  was 
looked  forward  to.  The  Rev.  Augustus 
Cracklethorpe,  M.A.,  might  possibly 
have  been  of  service  to  his  Church  in, 
say,  some  East-end  parish  of  unsavoury 
reputation,  some  mission  station  far  ad- 
vanced amid  the  hordes  of  heathendom. 
There  his  inborn  instinct  of  antagonism 
to  everybody  and  everything  surround- 
ing him,  his  unconquerable  disregard  for 
other  people's  views  and  feelings,  his  in- 
spired conviction  that  everybody  but 
himself  was  bound  to  be  always  wrong 
about  everything,  combined  with  deter- 
mination to  act  and  speak  fearlessly  in 
such  belief,  might  have  found  their  uses. 
In  picturesque  little  Wychwood-on-the- 
Heath,  among  the  Kentish  hills,  retreat 


THE  COST  OF  KINDNESS       157 

beloved  of  the  retired  tradesman,  the 
spinster  of  moderate  means,  the  re- 
formed Bohemian  developing  latent  in- 
stincts towards  respectability,  these 
qualities  made  only  for  scandal  and 
disunion. 

For  the  past  two  years  the  Eev. 
Cracklethorpe's  parishioners,  assisted 
by  such  other  of  the  inhabitants  of 
"Wychwood-on-the-Heath  as  had  hap- 
pened to  come  into  personal  contact  with 
the  reverend  gentleman,  had  sought  to 
impress  upon  him,  by  hints  and  innuen- 
does difficult  to  misunderstand,  their  cor- 
dial and  daily-increasing  dislike  of  him, 
both  as  a  parson  and  a  man.  Matters 
had  come  to  a  head  by  the  determina- 
tion officially  announced  to  him  that,  fail- 
ing other  alternatives,  a  deputation  of 
his  leading  parishioners  would  wait 
upon  his  bishop.  This  it  was  that  had 
brought  it  home  to  the  Rev.  Augustus 
Cracklethorpe  that,  as  the  spiritual 
guide  and  comforter  of  Wychwood-on- 
the  Heath,  he  had  proved  a  failure.  The 
Eev.  Augustus  had  sought  and  secured 


158       THE  COST  OF  KINDNESS 

the  care  of  other  souls.  The  following 
Sunday  morning  he  had  arranged  to 
preach  his  farewell  sermon,  and  the  oc- 
casion promised  to  be  a  success  from 
every  point  of  view.  Churchgoers  who 
had  not  visited  St.  Jude's  for  months 
had  promised  themselves  the  luxury  of 
feeling  they  were  listening  to  the  Rev. 
Augustus  Cracklethorpe  for  the  last 
time.  The  Rev.  Augustus  Cracklethorpe 
had  prepared  a  sermon  that  for  plain 
speaking  and  directness  was  likely  to 
leave  an  impression.  The  parishioners 
of  St.  Jude's,  Wychwood-on-the-Heath, 
had  their  failings,  as  we  all  have.  The 
Eev.  Augustus  flattered  himself  that  he 
had  not  missed  out  a  single  one,  and  was 
looking  forward  with  pleasurable  antici- 
pation to  the  sensation  that  his  remarks, 
from  his  * '  firstly  "  to  his  '  *  sixthly  and 
lastly,"  were  likely  to  create. 

"What  marred  the  entire  business  was 
the  impulsiveness  of  little  Mrs.  Penny- 
coop.  The  Eev.  Augustus  Crackle- 
thorpe, informed  in  his  study  on  the 
[Wednesday  afternoon  that  Mr.  and  Mrs. 


THE  COST  OF  KINDNESS       159 

Pennycoop  had  called,  entered  the  draw- 
ing-room a  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  cold 
and  severe;  and,  without  offering  to 
shake  hands,  requested  to  be  informed 
as  shortly  as  possible  for  what  purpose 
he  had  been  disturbed.  Mrs.  Pennycoop 
had  had  her  speech  ready  to  her  tongue. 
It  was  just  what  it  should  have  been,  and 
no  more. 

It  referred  casually,  without  insisting 
on  the  point,  to  the  duty  incumbent  upon 
all  of  us  to  remember  on  occasion  we 
were  Christians;  that  our  privilege  it 
was  to  forgive  and  forget;  that,  gener- 
ally speaking,  there  are  faults  on  both 
sides;  that  partings  should  never  take 
place  in  anger;  in  short,  that  little  Mrs. 
Pennycoop  and  George,  her  husband,  as 
he  was  waiting  to  say  for  himself,  were 
sorry  for  everything  and  anything  they 
may  have  said  or  done  in  the  past  to  hurt 
the  feelings  of  the  Kev.  Augustus 
Cracklethorpe,  and  would  like  to  shake 
hands  with  him  and  wish  him  every  hap- 
piness for  the  future.  The  chilling  atti- 
tude of  the  Rev.  Augustus  scattered  that 


160       THE  COST  OF  KINDNESS 

carefully-rehearsed  speech  to  the  winds. 
It  left  Mrs.  Pennycoop  nothing  but  to 
retire  in  choking  silence,  or  to  fling  her- 
self upon  the  inspiration  of  the  moment 
and  make  up  something  new.  She  choose 
the  latter  alternative. 

At  first  the  words  came  halting.  Her 
husband,  man-like,  had  deserted  her  in 
her  hour  of  utmost  need  and  was  fum- 
bling with  the  door-knob.  The  steely 
stare  with  which  the  Eev.  Cracklethorpe 
regarded  her,  instead  of  chilling  her, 
acted  upon  her  as  a  spur.  It  put  her 
on  her  mettle.  He  should  listen  to  her. 
She  would  make  him  understand  her 
kindly  feeling  towards  him  if  she  had 
to  take  him  by  the  shoulders  and  shake 
it  into  him.  At  the  end  of  five  minutes 
the  Rev.  Augustus  Cracklethorpe,  with- 
out knowing  it,  was  looking  pleased.  At 
the  end  of  another  five  Mrs.  Pennycoop 
stopped,  not  for  want  of  words,  but  for 
want  of  breath.  The  Rev.  Augustus 
Cracklethorpe  replied  in  a  voice  that, 
to  his  own  surprise,  was  trembling  with 
emotion.  Mrs.  Pennycoop  had  made  his 


THE  COST  OF  KINDNESS       161 

task  harder  for  him.  He  had  thought 
to  leave  Wychwood-on-the-Heath  with- 
out a  regret.  The  knowledge  he  now 
possessed,  that  at  all  events  one  mem- 
ber of  his  congregation  understood  him, 
as  Mrs.  Pennycoop  had  proved  to  him 
she  understood  him,  sympathized  with 
him — the  knowledge  that  at  least  one 
heart,  and  that  heart  Mrs.  Penny- 
coop  's,  had  warmed  to  him,  would  trans- 
form what  he  had  looked  forward 
to  as  a  blessed  relief  into  a  lasting 
grief. 

Mr.  Pennycoop,  carried  away  by  his 
wife's  eloquence,  added  a  few  halting 
words  of  his  own.  It  appeared  from  Mr. 
Pennycoop 's  remarks  that  he  had  al- 
ways regarded  the  Eev.  Augustus 
Cracklethorpe  as  the  vicar  of  his 
dreams,  but  misunderstandings  in  some 
unaccountable  way  will  arise.  The  Eev. 
Augustus  Cracklethorpe,  it  appeared, 
had  always  secretly  respected  Mr.  Pen- 
nycoop. If  at  any  time  his  spoken  words 
might  have  conveyed  the  contrary  im- 
pression, that  must  have  arisen  from 


162       THE  COST  OF  KINDNESS 

the  poverty  of  our  language,  which  does 
not  lend  itself  to  subtle  meanings. 

Then  following  the  suggestion  of  tea. 
Miss  Cracklethorpe,  sister  to  the  Rev. 
Augustus — a  lady  whose  likeness  to  her 
brother  in  all  respects  was  startling, 
the  only  difference  between  them  being 
that  while  he  was  clean-shaven  she  wore 
a  slight  moustache — was  called  down  to 
grace  the  board.  The  visit  was  ended  by 
Mrs.  Pennycoop's  remembrance  that  it 
was  Wilhelmina's  night  for  a  hot  bath. 

"  I  said  more  than  I  intended  to," 
admitted  Mrs.  Pennycoop  to  George,  her 
husband,  on  the  way  home ;  * '  but  he  irri- 
tated me." 

Rumour  of  the  Pennycoops'  visit  flew 
through  the  parish.  Other  ladies  felt  it 
their  duty  to  show  to  Mrs.  Pennycoop 
that  she  was  not  the  only  Christian  in 
Wychwood-on-the-Heath.  Mrs.  Penny- 
coop,  it  was  feared,  might  be  getting  a 
swelled  head  over  this  matter.  The  Rev. 
Augustus,  with  pardonable  pride,  re- 
peated some  of  the  things  that  Mrs. 
Pennycoop  had  said  to  him.  Mrs.  Pen- 


THE  COST  OF  KINDNESS       163 

nycoop  was  not  to  imagine  herself  the 
only  person  in  Wychwood-on-the-Heath 
capable  of  generosity  that  cost  nothing. 
Other  ladies  could  say  graceful  nothings 
— could  say  them  even  better.  Hus- 
bands dressed  in  their  best  clothes  and 
carefully  rehearsed  were  brought  in  to 
grace  the  almost  endless  procession  of 
disconsolate  parishioners  hammering  at 
the  door  of  St.  Jude's  parsonage.  Be- 
tween Thursday  morning  and  Saturday 
night  the  Rev.  Augustus,  much  to  his 
own  astonishment,  had  been  forced  to 
the  conclusion  that  five-sixths  of  his  pa- 
rishioners had  loved  him  from  the  first 
without  hitherto  having  had  opportunity 
of  expressing  their  real  feelings. 

The  eventful  Sunday  arrived.  The 
Rev.  Augustus  Cracklethorpe  had  been 
kept  so  busy  listening  to  regrets  at  his 
departure,  assurances  of  an  esteem 
hitherto  disguised  from  him,  explana- 
tions of  seeming  discourtesies  that  had 
been  intended  as  tokens  of  affectionate 
regard,  that  no  time  had  been  left  to  him 
to  think  of  other  matters.  Not  till  he 


164       THE  COST  OF  KINDNESS 

entered  the  vestry  at  five  minutes  to 
eleven  did  recollection  of  his  farewell 
sermon  come  to  him.  It  haunted  him 
throughout  the  service.  To  deliver  it 
after  the  revelations  of  the  last  three 
days  would  be  impossible.  It  was  the  ser- 
mon that  Moses  might  have  preached  to 
Pharaoh  the  Sunday  prior  to  the  exodus. 
To  crush  with  it  this  congregation  of 
broken-hearted  adorers  sorrowing  for 
his  departure  would  be  inhuman.  The 
Eev.  Augustus  tried  to  think  of  passages 
that  might  be  selected,  altered.  There 
were  none.  From  beginning  to  end  it 
contained  not  a  single  sentence  capable 
of  being  made  to  sound  pleasant  by  any 
ingenuity  whatsoever. 

The  Eev.  Augustus  Cracklethorpe 
climbed  slowly  up  the  pulpit  steps  with- 
out an  idea  in  his  head  of  what  he  was 
going  to  say.  The  sunlight  fell  upon  the 
upturned  faces  of  a  crowd  that  filled 
every  corner  of  the  church.  So  happy, 
so  buoyant  a  congregation  the  eyes  of 
the  Rev.  Augustus  Cracklethorpe  had 
never  till  that  day  looked  down  upon. 


THE  COST  OF  KINDNESS       165 

The  feeling  came  to  him  that  he  did  not 
want  to  leave  them.  That  they  did  not 
wish  him  to  go,  could  he  doubt?  Only 
by  regarding  them  as  a  collection  of 
the  most  shameless  hypocrites  ever  gath- 
ered together  under  one  roof.  The  Rev. 
Augustus  Cracklethorpe  dismissed  the 
passing  suspicion  as  a  suggestion  of  the 
Evil  One,  folded  the  neatly- written  man- 
uscript that  lay  before  him  on  the  desk, 
and  put  it  aside.  He  had  no  need  of  a 
farewell  sermon.  The  arrangements 
made  could  easily  be  altered.  The  Rev. 
Augustus  Cracklethorpe  spoke  from  his 
pulpit  for  the  first  time  an  impromptu. 

The  Rev.  Augustus  Cracklethorpe 
wished  to  acknowledge  himself  in  the 
wrong.  Foolishly  founding  his  judg- 
ment upon  the  evidence  of  a  few  men, 
whose  names  there  would  be  no  need  to 
mention,  members  of  the  congregation 
who,  he  hoped,  would  one  day  be  sorry 
for  the  misunderstandings  they  had 
caused,  brethren  whom  it  was  his  duty 
to  forgive,  he  had  assumed  the  parish- 
ioners of  St.  Jude's,  Wychwood-on-the- 


166       THE  COST  OF  KINDNESS 

Heath,  to  have  taken  a  personal  dislike 
to  him.  He  wished  to  publicly  apologize 
for  the  injustice  he  had  unwittingly  done 
to  their  heads  and  to  their  hearts.  He 
now  had  it  from  their  own  lips  that  a 
libel  had  been  put  upon  them.  So  far 
from  their  wishing  his  departure,  it  was 
self-evident  that  his  going  would  inflict 
upon  them  a  great  sorrow.  With  the 
knowledge  he  now  possessed  of  the  re- 
spect— one  might  almost  say  the  venera- 
tion— with  which  the  majority  of  that 
congregation  regarded  him — knowledge, 
he  admitted,  acquired  somewhat  late — 
it  was  clear  to  him  he  could  still  be  of 
help  to  them  in  their  spiritual  need.  To 
leave  a  flock  so  devoted  would  stamp  him 
as  an  unworthy  shepherd.  The  ceaseless 
stream  of  regrets  at  his  departure  that 
had  been  poured  into  his  ear  during  the 
last  four  days  he  had  decided  at  the  last 
moment  to  pay  heed  to.  He  would  re- 
main with  them — on  one  condition. 

There  quivered  across  the  sea  of  hu- 
manity below  him  a  movement  that 
might  have  suggested  to  a  more  ob- 


THE  COST  OF  KINDNESS       167 

servant  watcher  the  convulsive  clutch- 
ings  of  some  drowning  man  at  some 
chance  straw.  But  the  Rev.  Augustus 
Cracklethorpe  was  thinking  of  him- 
self. 

The  parish  was  large  and  he  was  no 
longer  a  young  man.  Let  them  provide 
him  with  a  conscientious  and  energetic 
curate.  He  had  such  a  one  in  his  mind's 
eye,  a  near  relation  of  his  own,  who,  for 
a  small  stipend  that  was  hardly  worth 
mentioning,  would,  he  knew  it  for  a  fact, 
accept  the  post.  The  pulpit  was  not  the 
place  in  which  to  discuss  these  matters, 
but  in  the  vestry  afterwards  he  would 
be  pleased  to  meet  such  members  of 
the  congregation  as  might  choose  to 
stay. 

The  question  agitating  the  majority  of 
the  congregation  during  the  singing  of 
the  hymn  was  the  time  it  would  take 
them  to  get  outside  the  church.  There 
still  remained  a  faint  hope  that  the  Kev. 
Augustus  Cracklethorpe,  not  obtaining 
his  curate,  might  consider  it  due  to  his 
own  dignity  to  shake  from  his  feet  the 


168       THE  COST  OF  KINDNESS 

dust  of  a  parish  generous  in  sentiment, 
but  obstinately  close-fisted  when  it  came 
to  putting  its  hands  into  its  pockets. 

But  for  the  parishioners  of  St.  Jude's 
that  Sunday  was  a  day  of  misfortune. 
Before  there  could  be  any  thought  of 
moving,  the  Rev.  Augustus  raised  his 
surpliced  arm  and  begged  leave  to  ac- 
quaint them  with  the  contents  of  a  short 
note  that  had  just  been  handed  up  to 
him.  It  would  send  them  all  home,  he 
felt  sure,  with  joy  and  thankfulness  in 
their  hearts.  An  example  of  Christian 
benevolence  was  among  them  that  did 
honour  to  the  Church. 

Here  a  retired  wholesale  clothier  from 
the  East-end  of  London — a  short,  tubby 
gentleman  who  had  recently  taken  the 
Manor  House — was  observed  to  turn 
scarlet. 

A  gentleman  hitherto  unknown  to 
them  had  signalled  his  advent  among 
them  by  an  act  of  munificence  that 
should  prove  a  shining  example  to  all 
rich  men.  Mr.  Horatio  Copper — the 
reverend  gentleman  found  some  diffi- 


THE  COST  OF  KINDNESS       169 

culty,  apparently,  in  deciphering  the 
name. 

"  Cooper-Smith,  sir,  with  an  hyphen," 
came  in  a  thin  whisper,  the  voice  of  the 
still  scarlet-faced  clothier. 

Mr.  Horatio  Cooper-Smith,  taking — 
the  Rev.  Augustus  felt  confident — a  not 
unworthy  means  of  grappling  to  himself 
thus  early  the  hearts  of  his  fellow-towns- 
men, had  expressed  his  desire  to  pay 
for  the  expense  of  a  curate  entirely  out 
of  his  own  pocket.  Under  these  circum- 
stances, there  would  be  no  further  talk 
of  a  farewell  between  the  Rev.  Augustus 
Cracklethorpe  and  his  parishioners.  It 
would  be  the  hope  of  the  Rev.  Augustus 
Cracklethorpe  to  live  and  die  the  pastor 
of  St.  Jude's. 

A  more  solemn-looking,  sober  congre- 
gation than  the  congregation  that 
emerged  that  Sunday  morning  from  St. 
Jude's  in  Wychwood-on-the-Heath  had 
never,  perhaps,  passed  out  of  a  church 
door. 

11  He'll  have  more  time  upon  his 
hands, ' '  said  Mr.  Biles,  retired  wholesale 


170       THE  COST  OF  KINDNESS 

ironmonger  and  junior  churchwarden,  to 
Mrs.  Biles,  turning  the  corner  of  Acacia 
Avenue — ' '  he  '11  have  more  time  to  make 
himself  a  curse  and  a  stumbling-block." 

'  *  And  if  this  '  near  relation  '  of  his  is 
anything  like  him " 

"  Which  you  may  depend  upon  it  is 
the  case,  or  he'd  never  have  thought  of 
him,"  was  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Biles. 

"  I  shall  give  that  Mrs.  Pennycoop," 
said  Mrs.  Biles,  "  a  piece  of  my  mind 
when  I  meet  her." 

But  of  what  use  was  that? 


THE  LOVE  OF  ULRICH 
NEBENDAHL 

PERHAPS  of  all,  it  troubled  most  the  Herr 
Pfarrer.  Was  he  not  the  father  of  the 
village?  And  as  such  did  it  not  fall  to 
him  to  see  his  children  marry  well  and 
suitably?  marry  in  any  case.  It  was  the 
duty  of  every  worthy  citizen  to  keep 
alive  throughout  the  ages  the  sacred 
hearth  fire,  to  rear  up  sturdy  lads  and 
honest  lassies  that  would  serve  God,  and 
the  Fatherland.  A  true  son  of  Saxon 
soil  was  the  Herr  Pastor  Winckelmann 
— kindly,  simple,  sentimental. 

11  Why,  at  your  age,  Ulrich — at  your 
age,"  repeated  the  Herr  Pastor,  set- 
ting down  his  beer  and  wiping  with  the 
back  of  his  hand  his  large  uneven  lips, 
"  I  was  the  father  of  a  family — two 
boys  and  a  girl.  You  never  saw  her, 
Ulrich ;  so  sweet,  so  good.  We  called  her 

171 


172  THE  LOVE  OP 

Maria."  The  Herr  Pfarrer  sighed  and 
hid  his  broad  red  face  behind  the  raised 
cover  of  his  pewter  pot. 

"  They  must  be  good  fun  in  a  house, 
the  little  ones,"  commented  Ulrich,  gaz- 
ing upward  with  his  dreamy  eyes  at 
the  wreath  of  smoke  ascending  from 
his  long-stemmed  pipe.  "  The  little 
ones,  always  my  heart  goes  out  to 
them." 

' '  Take  to  yourself  a  wife, ' '  urged  the 
Herr  Pfarrer.  "  It  is  your  duty.  The 
good  God  has  given  to  you  ample 
means.  It  is  not  right  that  you  should 
lead  this  lonely  life.  Bachelors  make 
old  maids ;  things  of  no  use. ' ' 

"  That  is  so,"  Ulrich  agreed.  "  I 
have  often  said  the  same  unto  myself. 
It  would  be  pleasant  to  feel  one  was  not 
working  merely  for  oneself." 

"  Elsa,  now,"  went  on  the  Herr 
Pfarrer, ' '  she  is  a  good  child,  pious  and 
economical.  The  price  of  such  is  above 
rubies." 

Ulrich 's  face  lightened  with  a  pleas- 
ant smile.  "  Aye,  Elsa  is  a  good  girl," 


ULRICH  NEBENDAHL  173 

he  answered.  "  Her  little  hands — have 
you  ever  noticed  them,  Herr  Pastor — so 
soft  and  dimpled.'* 

The  Pfarrer  pushed  aside  his  empty 
pot  and  leaned  his  elbows  on  the  table. 

"  I  think — I  do  not  think — she  would 
say  no.  Her  mother,  I  have  reason  to 
believe Let  me  sound  them — dis- 
creetly." The  old  pastor's  red  face 
glowed  redder,  yet  with  pleasurable  an- 
ticipation; he  was  a  born  matchmaker. 

But  Ulrich  the  wheelwright  shuffled  in 
his  chair  uneasily. 

"  A  little  longer,"  he  pleaded.  "  Let 
me  think  it  over.  A  man  should  not 
marry  without  first  being  sure  he  loves. 
Things  might  happen.  It  would  not  be 
fair  to  the  maiden." 

The  Herr  Pfarrer  stretched  his  hand 
across  the  table  and  laid  it  upon  Ulrich 's 
arm. 

"It  is  Hedwig;  twice  you  walked 
home  with  her  last  week." 

"It  is  a  lonesome  way  for  a  timid 
maiden;  and  there  is  the  stream  to 
cross,"  explained  the  wheelwright. 


174  THE  LOVE  OF 

For  a  moment  the  Herr  Pastor's  face 
had  clouded,  but  now  it  cleared  again. 

"  Well,  well,  why  not?  Elsa  would 
have  been  better  in  some  respects,  but 
Hedwig — ah,  yes,  she,  too,  is  a  good  girl ; 
a  little  wild  perhaps — it  will  wear  off. 
Have  you  spoken  with  her?  " 

"  Not  yet." 

11  But  you  will?  " 

Again  there  fell  that  troubled  look 
into  those  dreamy  eyes.  This  time  it  was 
Ulrich  who,  laying  aside  his  pipe,  rested 
his  great  arms  upon  the  wooden  table. 

' '  Now,  how  does  a  man  know  when  he 
is  in  love  1  ' '  asked  Ulrich  of  the  Pastor, 
who,  having  been  married  twice,  should 
surely  be  experienced  upon  the  point. 
"  How  should  he  be  sure  that  it  is  this 
woman  and  no  other  to  whom  his  heart 
has  gone  out?  " 

A  commonplace-looking  man  was  the 
Herr  Pastor,  short  and  fat  and  bald. 
But  there  had  been  other  days,  and  these 
had  left  to  him  a  voice  that  still  was 
young;  and  the  evening  twilight  screen- 
ing the  seared  face,  Ulrich  heard  but 


ULRICH  NEBENDAHL  175 

the  pastor's  voice,  which  was  the  voice 
of  a  boy. 

*  *  She  will  be  dearer  to  you  than  your- 
self. Thinking  of  her,  all  else  will  be  as 
nothing.  For  her  you  would  lay  down 
your  life." 

They  sat  in  silence  for  a  while ;  for  the 
fat  little  Herr  Pfarrer  was  dreaming  of 
the  past ;  and  long,  lanky  Ulrich  Neben- 
dahl,  the  wheelwright,  of  the  future. 

That  evening,  as  chance  would  have  it, 
Ulrich  returning  to  his  homestead — a 
rambling  mill  beside  the  river,  where  he 
dwelt  alone  with  ancient  Anna — met 
Elsa  of  the  dimpled  hands  upon  the 
bridge  that  spans  the  murmuring 
Miihlde,  and  talked  a  while  with  her, 
and  said  good-night. 

How  sweet  it  had  been  to  watch  her 
ox-like  eyes  shyly  seeking  his,  to  press 
her  dimpled  hand  and  feel  his  own  great 
strength.  Surely  he  loved  her  better 
than  he  did  himself.  There  could  be  no 
doubt  of  it.  He  pictured  her  in  trouble, 
in  danger  from  the  savage  soldiery  that 
came  and  went  like  evil  shadows  through 


176  THE  LOVE  OF 

these  pleasant  Saxon  valleys,  leaving 
death  and  misery  behind  them:  burnt 
homesteads;  wild-eyed  women,  hiding 
their  faces  from  the  light.  Would  he  not 
for  her  sake  give  his  life! 

So  it  was  made  clear  to  him  that  little 
Elsa  was  his  love. 

Until  next  morning,  when,  raising  his 
eyes  from  the  whirling  saw,  there  stood 
before  him  Margot,  laughing.  Margot, 
mischief-loving,  wayward,  that  would 
ever  be  to  him  the  baby  he  had  played 
with,  nursed,  and  comforted.  Margot 
weary!  Had  he  not  a  thousand  times 
carried  her  sleeping  in  his  arms.  Mar- 
got  in  danger !  At  the  mere  thought  his 
face  flushed  an  angry  scarlet. 

All  that  afternoon  Ulrich  communed 
with  himself,  tried  to  understand  him- 
self, and  could  not.  For  Elsa  and  Mar- 
got  and  Hedwig  were  not  the  only  ones 
by  a  long  way.  What  girl  in  the  village 
did  he  not  love,  if  it  came  to  that :  Liesel, 
who  worked  so  hard  and  lived  so  poorly, 
bullied  by  her  cross-grained  granddam. 
Susanna,  plain  and  a  little  crotchety, 


ULRICH  NEBENDAHL  177 

who  had  never  had  a  sweetheart  to  coax 
the  thin  lips  into  smiles.  The  little  ones 
— for  so  they  seemed  to  long,  lanky  Ul- 
rich,  with  their  pleasant  ways — Ulrich 
smiled  as  he  thought  of  them — how 
should  a  man  love  one  more  than 
another? 

The  Herr  Pfarrer  shook  his  head  and 
sighed. 

"  That  is  not  love.  Gott  in  Himmel! 
think  what  it  would  lead  to?  The  good 
God  never  would  have  arranged  things 
so.  You  love  one ;  she  is  the  only  woman 
in  the  world  for  you." 

* '  But  you,  yourself,  Herr  Pastor,  you 
have  twice  been  married,"  suggested  the 
puzzled  wheelwright. 

11  But  one  at  a  time,  Ulrich — one  at  a 
time.  That  is  a  very  different  thing." 

Why  should  it  not  come  to  him,  alone 
among  men?  Surely  it  was  a  beautiful 
thing,  this  love ;  a  thing  worthy  of  a  man, 
without  which  a  man  was  but  a  useless 
devourer  of  food,  cumbering  the  earth. 

So  Ulrich  pondered,  pausing  from  his 
work  one  drowsy  summer's  afternoon, 


178  ^THE  LOVE  OP 

listening  to  the  low  song  of  the  waters. 
How  well  he  knew  the  winding  Miihlde's 
merry  voice.  He  had  worked  beside  it, 
played  beside  it  all  his  life.  Often  he 
would  sit  and  talk  to  it  as  to  an  old 
friend,  reading  answers  in  its  changing 
tones. 

Trudchen,  seeing  him  idle,  pushed  her 
cold  nose  into  his  hand.  Trudchen  just 
now  was  feeling  clever  and  important. 
Was  she  not  the  mother  of  the  five  most 
wonderful  puppies  in  all  Saxony!  They 
swarmed  about  his  legs,  pressing  him 
with  their  little  foolish  heads.  Ulrich 
stooped  and  picked  up  one  in  each  big 
hand.  But  this  causing  jealousy  and 
heartburning,  laughing,  he  lay  down 
upon  a  log.  Then  the  whole  five  stormed 
over  him,  biting  his  hair,  trampling  with 
their  clumsy  paws  upon  his  face;  till 
suddenly  they  raced  off  in  a  body  to  at- 
tack a  floating  feather.  Ulrich  sat  up 
and  watched  them,  the  little  rogues,  the 
little  foolish,  helpless  things,  that  called 
for  so  much  care.  A  mother  thrush  twit- 
tered above  his  head.  Ulrich  rose,  and, 


ULRICH  NEBENDAHL  179 

creeping  on  tiptoe,  peeped  into  the  nest. 
But  the  mother  bird,  casting  one  glance 
towards  him,  went  on  with  her  work. 
Whoever  was  afraid  of  Ulrich  the  wheel- 
wright! The  tiny  murmuring  insects 
buzzed  to  and  fro  about  his  feet.  An  old 
man,  passing  to  his  evening  rest,  gave 
him  "  good-day."  A  zephyr  whispered 
something  to  the  leaves,  at  which  they 
laughed,  then  passed  upon  his  way.  Here 
and  there  a  shadow  crept  out  from  its 
hiding-place. 

"  If  only  I  could  marry  the  whole 
village !  ' :  laughed  Ulrich  to  himself. 
4 '  But  that,  of  course,  is  nonsense !  ' : 

The  spring  that  followed  let  loose  the 
dogs  of  war  again  upon  the  blood-stained 
land,  for  now  all  Germany,  taught  late 
by  common  suffering  forgetfulness  of 
local  rivalries,  was  rushing  together  in 
a  mighty  wave  that  would  sweep  French 
feet  for  ever  from  their  hold  on  German 
soil.  Ulrich,  for  whom  the  love  of 
woman  seemed  not,  would  at  least  be  the 
lover  of  his  country.  He,  too,  would 
march  among  those  brave  stern  hearts 


180  THE  LOVE  OF 

that,  stealing  like  a  thousand  rivulets 
from  every  German  valley,  were  flowing 
north  and  west  to  join  the  Prussian 
eagles. 

But  even  love  of  country  seemed  de- 
nied to  Ulrich  of  the  dreamy  eyes.  His 
wheelwright's  business  had  called  him 
to  a  town  far  off.  He  had  been  walking 
all  the  day.  Towards  evening,  passing 
the  outskirts  of  a  wood,  a  feeble  cry  for 
help,  sounding  from  the  shadows,  fell 
upon  his  ear.  Ulrich  paused,  and  again 
from  the  sombre  wood  crept  that  weary 
cry  of  pain.  Ulrich  ran  and  came  at  last 
to  where,  among  the  wild  flowers  and 
the  grass,  lay  prone  five  human  figures. 
Two  of  them  were  of  the  German  Land- 
wehr,  the  other  three  Frenchmen  in  the 
hated  uniform  of  Napoleon's  famous 
scouts.  It  had  been  some  unimportant 
"  affair  of  outposts,"  one  of  those  com- 
mon incidents  of  warfare  that  are  never 
recorded — never  remembered  save  here 
and  there  by  some  sad  face  unnoticed  in 
the  crowd.  Four  of  the  men  were  dead ; 
one,  a  Frenchman,  was  still  alive,  though 


ULEICH  NEBENDAHL  181 

bleeding  copiously  from  a  deep  wound  in 
the  chest  that  with  a  handful  of  dank 
grass  he  was  trying  to  staunch. 

Ulrich  raised  him  in  his  arms.  The 
man  spoke  no  German,  and  Ulrich  knew 
but  his  mother  tongue;  but  when  the 
man,  turning  towards  the  neighbouring 
village  with  a  look  of  terror  in  his  half- 
glazed  eyes,  pleaded  with  his  hands,  Ul- 
rich understood,  and  lifting  him  gently 
carried  him  further  into  the  wood. 

He  found  a  small  deserted  shelter  that 
had  been  made  by  charcoal-burners,  and 
there  on  a  bed  of  grass  and  leaves  Ulrich 
laid  him;  and  there  for  a  week  all  but 
a  day  Ulrich  tended  him  and  nursed  him 
back  to  life,  coming  and  going  stealthily 
like  a  thief  in  the  darkness.  Then  Ul- 
rich, who  had  thought  his  one  desire  in 
life  to  be  to  kill  all  Frenchmen,  put  food 
and  drink  into  the  Frenchman's  knap- 
sack and  guided  him  half  through  the 
night  and  took  his  hand;  and  so  they 
parted. 

Ulrich  did  not  return  to  Alt  Waldnitz, 
that  lies  hidden  in  the  forest  beside  the 


182  THE  LOVE  OF 

murmuring  Miihlde.  They  would  think 
he  had  gone  to  the  war;  he  would  let 
them  think  so.  He  was  too  great  a 
coward  to  go  back  to  them  and  tell  them 
that  he  no  longer  wanted  to  fight;  that 
the  sound  of  the  drum  brought  to  him 
only  the  thought  of  trampled  grass 
where  dead  men  lay  with  curses  in  their 
eyes. 

So,  with  head  bowed  down  in  shame, 
to  and  fro  about  the  moaning  land,  Ul- 
rich  of  the  dreamy  eyes  came  and  went, 
guiding  his  solitary  footsteps  by  the 
sounds  of  sorrow,  driving  away  the 
things  of  evil  where  they  crawled  among 
the  wounded,  making  his  way  swiftly  to 
the  side  of  pain,  heedless  of  the  uni- 
form. 

Thus  one  day  he  found  himself  by 
chance  near  again  to  forest-girdled 
Waldnitz.  He  would  push  his  way 
across  the  hills,  wander  through  its 
quiet  ways  in  the  moonlight  while  the 
good  folks  all  lay  sleeping.  His  foot- 
steps quickened  as  he  drew  nearer. 
Where  the  trees  broke  he  would  be  able 


ULRICH  NEBENDAHL  183 

to  look  down  upon  it,  see  every  roof  he 
knew  so  well — the  church,  the  mill,  the 
winding  Miihlde — the  green,  worn  grey 
with  dancing  feet,  where,  when  the  hate- 
ful war  was  over,  would  be  heard  again 
the  Saxon  folk-songs. 

Another  was  there,  where  the  forest 
halts  on  the  brow  of  the  hill — a  figure 
kneeling  on  the  ground  with  his  face  to- 
wards the  village.  Ulrich  stole  closer. 
It  was  the  Herr  Pf arrer,  praying  volubly 
but  inaudibly.  He  scrambled  to  his 
feet  as  Ulrich  touched  him,  and  his  first 
astonishment  over,  poured  forth  his  tale 
of  woe. 

There  had  been  trouble  since  Ulrich 's 
departure.  A  French  corps  of  observa- 
tion had  been  camped  upon  the  hill,  and 
twice  within  the  month  had  a  French 
soldier  been  found  murdered  in  the 
woods.  Heavy  had  been  the  penalties 
exacted  from  the  village,  and  terrible 
had  been  the  Colonel's  threats  of  ven- 
geance. Now,  for  a  third  time,  a  soldier 
stabbed  in  the  back  had  been  borne  into 
camp  by  his  raging  comrades,  and  this 


184  THE  LOVE  OF 

very  afternoon  the  Colonel  had  sworn 
that  if  the  murderer  were  not  handed 
over  to  him  within  an  hour  from  dawn, 
when  the  camp  was  to  break  up,  he  would 
before  marching  burn  the  village  to  the 
ground.  The  Herr  Pfarrer  was  on  his 
way  back  from  the  camp  where  he  had 
been  to  plead  for  mercy,  but  it  had  been 
in  vain. 

"  Such  are  foul  deeds!"  said  Ul- 
rich. 

"  The  people  are  mad  with  hatred  of 
the  French, ' '  answered  the  Herr  Pastor. 
"  It  may  be  one,  it  may  be  a  dozen  who 
have  taken  vengeance  into  their  own 
hands.  May  God  forgive  them." 

' '  They  will  not  come  forward — not  to 
save  the  village?  " 

"  Can  you  expect  it  of  them!  There 
is  no  hope  for  us;  the  village  will  burn 
as  a  hundred  others  have  burned." 

Aye,  that  was  true;  Ulrich  had  seen 
their  blackened  ruins;  the  old  sitting 
with  white  faces  among  the  wreckage  of 
their  homes,  the  little  children  wailing 
round  their  knees,  the  tiny  broods 


ULRICH  NEBENDAHL  185 

burned  in  their  nests.  He  had  picked 
their  corpses  from  beneath  the  charred 
trunks  of  the  dead  elms. 

The  Herr  Pfarrer  had  gone  forward 
on  his  melancholy  mission  to  prepare 
the  people  for  their  doom. 

Ulrich  stood  alone,  looking  down  upon 
Alt  Waldnitz  bathed  in  moonlight.  And 
there  came  to  him  the  words  of  the  old 
pastor :  *  *  She  will  be  dearer  to  you  than 
yourself.  For  her  you  would  lay  down 
your  life."  And  Ulrich  knew  that  his 
love  was  the  village  of  Alt  Waldnitz, 
where  dwelt  his  people,  the  old  and 
wrinkled,  the  laughing  "  little  ones," 
where  dwelt  the  helpless  dumb  things 
with  their  deep  pathetic  eyes,  where  the 
bees  hummed  drowsily,  and  the  thou- 
sand tiny  creatures  of  the  day. 

They  hanged  him  high  upon  a  with- 
ered elm,  with  his  face  towards  Alt 
Waldnitz,  that  all  the  village,  old  and 
young,  might  see;  and  then  to  the  beat 
of  drum  and  scream  of  fife  they  marched 
away ;  and  forest-hidden  Waldnitz  gath- 
ered up  once  more  its  many  threads  of 


186    LOVE  OF  ULRICH  NEBENDAHL 

quiet  life  and  wove  them  into  homely 
pattern. 

They  talked  and  argued  many  a  time, 
and  some  there  were  who  praised  and 
some  who  blamed.  But  the  Herr  Pf  arrer 
could  not  understand. 

Until  years  later  a  dying  man  unbur- 
dened his  soul  so  that  the  truth  became 
known. 

Then  they  raised  Ulrich's  coffin  rever- 
ently, and  the  young  men  Carried  it  into 
the  village  and  laid  it  in  the  churchyard 
that  it  might  always  be  among  them. 
They  reared  above  him  what  in  their 
eyes  was  a  grand  monument,  and  carved 
upon  it: 

"  Greater  love  hath  no  man  than 
this." 


A     000  703  968 


